


Save As

by poisontaster



Series: Dying is Easy [5]
Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-03
Updated: 2008-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-09 10:48:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Save As: The moment in creating something (a document, a relationship) where you: a) decide this is something you definitely want to keep and b) have to apply a label to it, give it a name (make it real). </em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save As

_December 26_

"Hey. Turn on the game, will ya?" 

Regular sex has been good for Matt. 

Regular sex has been so good for Matt that the generalized cloud of anxiety that's been plaguing him has almost completely vanished, leaving him feeling almost—almost—like the happy-go-lucky guy he was before the fire sale. 

Regular sex has, in fact, been _so_ good to him that he doesn't even blink at McClane's request to turn on football, probably Matt's least favorite activity ever, next to maybe boxing. Because he, ladies and gentlemen, has not only been spectacularly laid, he also has had his brain sucked out through his dick in the shower about ten minutes before by none other than Detective John McClane, hard-boiled New York City cop himself. 

"What's the score?" McClane shouts from the bathroom, finishing up his own shower. 

"Uh…" Guys in burgundy and guys in white are spread out across the screen. Matt has no earthly idea which is which. "Pru is winning by seven?" 

John laughs. "Purdue," he corrects. "Purdue is winning by seven." 

Matt rolls his eyes but doesn't have any time to come up with a response because there's a swift, perfunctory knock on the apartment door and then the rattle of keys. Matt prides himself on being a pretty quick thinker under pressure, at least when guns aren't involved, but he sits there, totally tharn on John's couch while the door opens and Lucy—holy Christ, _Lucy_ —breezes in, balancing some gift-wrapped boxes in one arm. 

"Dad! Don't shoot, it's Lucy," she says, unable to see Matt over her armful of presents. "I'm sorry I didn't call but my cell battery died and I…" She turns to put the boxes down on John's breakfast bar and spots Matt still sitting completely frozen on the couch. 

"Um. Lucy, hey." Matt manages a weak wave, thanking whatever patron saint watches over dumb ass hackers that he's at least fully clothed. Half an hour earlier and she'd have gotten the full Monty, oh Jesus. 

_Is this what a heart attack feels like?_ he wonders, racking his brain frantically for something better, smarter…hell, _anything_ that he can say to explain what he's doing in John's apartment, chilling on John's couch, dick freshly sucked, ass pleasantly reamed. By John. _I bet this is. I bet this is exactly what a heart attack feels like._

"Matt?" Lucy tugs her hat from her hair, sprinkling melting snow onto the shoulders of her coat. She's frowning, but it's not the Glen Close going for the kitchen knives kind of frown, so that's something. 

"Matt, what are you doing here?" 

"Matt, did you say…?" John's voice gains in volume as he comes from the bathroom. 

Head still frozen face forward, Matt can't look, but he's praying—and he's an atheist—praying: _For the love of God, let him be clothed. Please. I know I don't believe in you, but if there's any kind of giant voice in the sky looking out for harmless little guys like me, let John at least have his skivvies on, please._

"Lucy." John's voice sounds…weird is the best adjective Matt can come up with. Matt finally breaks his paralysis enough to turn his head and oh, man, thank you. John is shirtless, but he's wearing his jeans and Matt is totally not looking at the last of the shower water rippling down John's cut abs, he is totally not doing that, thank you, no. Matt looks away, heart hammering so hard in his chest he feels lightheaded even sitting down. "What're you doing here, honey?" 

"Forget about me, what are _you_ doing here, Matt?" Lucy doesn't sound mad exactly, but there's a definite edge to her voice and when Matt can bring himself to look back at her, her mouth is set in a line that looks remarkably like John's. 

Matt opens his mouth and nothing comes out. Not even air. 

"Matt and me have been hanging out," John cuts in, with more smoothness than Matt thought he was capable of. "I make him go to the gym every once in a while and he shows me how to use the computer for more than looking up porn." 

Lucy's face wrinkles. "Dad. Ew." 

"Hey." John comes forward, arms held out. "Don't I even get a hug?" 

"Yeah, of course." Lucy steps into John's arms and puts her head on his shoulder, eyes closing as he squeezes her tightly. Matt's chest aches rottenly at the sight, feeling like he's seeing something he has no right to, squirmy and out of place. "Merry Christmas, Daddy."

***

"Dad, can I talk to you for a minute?" After the hug, Lucy offers John significant eyebrows and grabs his arm to tow him further back into the apartment near the bathroom.

"Lucy?" John's stuck somewhere around amused though he's not sure if it's more from Matt's panicky discomfort or Lucy's wild-eyed confusion. 

Lucy's lips flare and then tuck flat. "I just. What's he even doing here? Really?" 

John shrugs, not for one second considering telling the truth. "There's no big conspiracy here, kiddo, sorry to disappoint." 

Lucy huffs and shifts on her toes, glancing anxiously back toward the living room. She lowers her voice again. "Okay, but it's weird, right? Don't you think it's weird? You hardly know each other." 

John considers how well he knows Matt. He knows Matt will compulsively pick all the vegetables from his Chinese, laying them in a neat semicircle around the rim of his plate, eyebrows furrowed in the same frown of concentration he gets when he writes code or whatever you call it. He knows Matt still has nightmares, far more often than he admits to, whimpering in his sleep and waking with cramping phantom pain in his leg. He knows the scar embarrasses Matt, watches him try to casually hide it when he's naked. He knows the fruity rose tattoo that curls around Matt's navel that Matt _should_ probably hide. He knows Matt's cock, soft and hard; knows how Matt likes it to be touched, held, sucked. John knows to press his fingers into Matt's bruises when they fuck and the stifled, breaking sounds he makes when he comes. 

"Plus, you're old." 

John smiles. "Gee, thanks, Lucy." 

Embarrassment peeks through her puzzled irritation in the way she sighs. "You know what I mean. Matt's like… my age." 

"I think he's still got a couple years on you," John says absently, craning down the hallway for any sight of Matt. 

Lucy sighs and rolls her eyes, stepping into his vision again. " _Practically_ the same age. Tons younger than your Stone Age. I just… I'm worried that he's pretending to like you—to be friends with you—to get in good with me." 

John puts a hand on her shoulder. "Honey, no one in their right mind would think the way to you goes through me." 

Lucy laughs. "Okay, yeah. That's true." Then her expression turns serious again. "I just worry sometimes that Matt's _not_ in his right mind." Her huge eyes fix on him. "And I don't want you to get hurt." 

John flushes hot with warmth, feeling it all the way to his bones. His relationship with his kids isn't what he'd like it to be, isn't what it should be, but John loves Lucy and Jack like no one else on the planet and it's easy for him to forget they might give a shit about what happens to him too. 

"He's a kid," John tells her gently—though not without some misgivings. "I think I can handle it." 

Another roll of Lucy's eyes but it's mild, easy. "Oh, _Dad_." Her tone reminds him so much of Holly he can't stand it. "I know you can. I'm…. I'm being silly. I know it. I think it's good. You spend too much time by yourself anyway and if Matt talks to you, feels safe with you…" She crosses her arms like she's cold. "God knows he won't talk to anyone else." 

Lucy's expression is shadowed but this time John gets the distinct impression it's not for him. He doesn't get the chance to follow up, though, because Matt clears his throat loudly and steps into the hallway. He's fully dressed, down to his puffy coat and knit cap. John wants to smooth the messy ends out of Matt's eyes. "I…" Matt points over his shoulder in the direction of the door. "I'm getting ready to head out." His tone is mild, unreadable, but John doesn't need to be a fucking mind reader to see what's going on here. 

"What? No, hey, Matt…" Lucy looks flustered now, a hectic, blotchy blush rising in her already cold-reddened cheeks.

"Bullshit." John brushes past Lucy to snatch the hat from Matt's head, messing up his hair more. John wants to wrap his fingers in it, pull it back, jerk Matt's head back so he can mark up that long, white neck. Instead, he tosses the hat into Matt's face, making the kid sputter. "You brought that gigantic turkey into my house. You're not sticking me with it. I'll burn this place down." 

Lucy is looking from him to Matt and for one heart-stopping second, John thinks she's figured it all out, though hell if he knows how, since he hasn't figured it all out himself. "He will, you know," Lucy interjects helpfully instead, coming to John's side. "Besides, you can't go. I just got here and I haven't even heard about your latest Warcraft exploits. Did you ever advance that Hoarde druid?" 

John has no fucking idea what Lucy's talking about but it seems to do the trick as Matt brightens up right away: "Aw, man, I had to stop playing him. I started playing this rogue instead and she's really into leather working, you know…?" 

Between the two of them, they get Matt out of his coat and into the kitchen where he puts John to work cleaning goop out of the inside of the bird and Lucy chopping up vegetables. It's oddly comfortable and John can _almost_ fool himself into believing everything's five by five. 

Matt looks at him over Lucy's bent head, something in his expression that John flat-out can't read. 

_Almost._

***

"Well, that was an adventure." Once Lucy's gone, John drops heavily onto the couch next to Matt, arm curving around Matt's back.

"Yeah." Matt's eyes are closed and he resists the pull of John's fingers trying to urge him to lean into John's side. He doesn't know what's wrong with him. He felt fine while Lucy was here. Well… as fine as it can be when you're fucking your sorta-ex's dad on the sly. But now she's gone and the quiet has resettled on the small apartment and Matt feels out of sorts and itchy in his skin. 

"What's wrong?" 

"What?" Matt lifts his head and opens his eyes, focusing on John. "Nothing, nothing." 

John nods slowly, but he doesn't look satisfied with that answer. 

"Hey." Matt holds out his hand. "Good looking out on the whole Lucy situation, by the way. Man, that could've been a real disaster." Matt hates his voice. It sounds too loud, too phony-cheerful and wavery as a saw blade. 

John's eyes don't change, watchful as a hawk's on Matt's face and Matt feels himself start to flush. 

"Yeah," John agrees in that deadpan monotone that doesn't tell Matt anything. "A real disaster." 

Matt rakes a hand through his hair. It's getting too long, even for him. "I'm tired. I'm gonna… I'm gonna get some sleep." 

"You need me to tuck you in?" John's hand settles on Matt's thigh, gently kneading and Matt knows John's being funny and what passes for flirtatious for a New York cop, but there's still that _edge_ in his voice, the one that makes Matt a little sink-stomached and simultaneously, kind of turned on.   
He just doesn't know if he wants John touching him at all right now. Matt lurches up from the couch, head throbbing leadenly. "No," he says, a little too quickly. "I'm good, just… tired. I really just want to sleep," he says apologetically. 

John settles back on the couch. "Yeah, sure." 

Matt hesitates in the bedroom doorway, his fingers brushing the jamb. "You coming?" 

"In a little bit." 

"Oh. Okay." He's not disappointed. He's really not. He doesn't know what he is, except exhausted. 

Definitely time for bed.

***

 _December 27_

Matt didn't expect to fall asleep as quickly or as deeply as he does. His track record for sleeping through the night is shot, even if it's just a half-rise through the layers of consciousness to recognize where he is and John's slack body snoring quietly beside him. When he opens his eyes to the pressure of John's weight hitting the mattress, though, weak fingers of daylight are peeking through the cheap shades.

John peels the blanket back and the chill hits Matt's shoulders, making him whimper and turn his face into the pillow, trying to huddle deeper. John laughs quietly and then buries his face in the nape of Matt's neck, pressing against Matt's back, almost as good as the blanket. 

"You j'st now c'ming to bed?" John trails warm, open-mouthed kisses down Matt's neck, his spine, and Matt gives up any hope of getting back to sleep. Doesn't mean he's not going to fight it tooth and nail, though. 

"Yeah. Fell asleep on the couch." One callused hand curves around Matt's naked side, squeezing lightly before it pushes under the waistband of his shorts to palm his hip. "You still mad?" 

Huh? Matt starts to turn over, has to wait for John to untangle his hand from his boxers and slide back enough to give him the space to roll. "I'm not... I wasn't _mad_." 

"Mmmhmm." The corner of John's mouth curves up, a half-smile now as familiar as the hands tugging Matt's underwear from his hips. 

"It's just. You know. With Lucy stopping by and all..." Matt lifts up helpfully, kicking his boxers away as John drags them down his legs. "Whew! That was crazy. Wasn't that crazy?" 

"Matt." John wraps his fingers around Matt's cock, stroking with a firmness that makes Matt's toes curl. "I really don't want to talk about Lucy right now." 

"Oh. Heh." Matt's nervous chuckle deepens into a moan when John's thumb slips over the head of his cock on the upstroke and his legs slide restlessly on the sheets. "Yeah. _Oh._ " 

"On your back. Roll on your back." 

Matt can't seem to remember what his kinks were before John McClane—though surely he had to have some—but these days, a sharply snapped order in that low, deadly-serious voice and John's big, hard hands holding him down... yeah. That right there. Matt isn't even remotely sleepy anymore, but he feels awake in this drugged, soporific way, pliant and compliant as John pushes him onto his back, pinning him there with one hand and a lot of weight on his shoulder. Without missing a stroke or losing a bit of his crooked smirk, John rises and nudges his knees between Matt's, pushing them apart.

Matt lifts his head and looks down his body to look at John's hand wrapped around him, moving faster now, harder. He follows it up the corded, bunched line of John's arm—laddered in fine, pale scars—to his shoulder, smooth skin marred by knurled scar tissue the size of Matt's palm. The older scar—knife, John had explained, without further illumination—is as silvery smooth as the ones on John's arms, but the star pucker of the gunshot wound is still tenderly red, even after nearly two years. Matt sometimes buries his face there, puts his mouth where the bullet went in and swears the skin is that tiny bit warmer there than anywhere else on John's body. He's done extensive research. 

"Matt. Don't do that. Look at me. Look me in my eyes." 

John's voice calls Matt out of his head; Matt looks up into John's face, still crumpled with sleep and rough with graying stubble. Gullied sun and smile lines lead Matt into the calmest, steadiest eyes he's ever seen. Reaching up isn't conscious; Matt isn't aware of his hand moving until John's ribs are under his fingers, the regular bellow of John's breath vibrating against his palm. And still John jerks him with relentless intensity, liquefying Matt's spine and making his thighs shake in helpless trembles. 

At Matt's touch, John's face tightens for a moment as if in pain—a reaction Matt's familiar enough with now to know it's no such thing—and then his breath blows out and he crushes his mouth against Matt's. Matt moans into it, fumbling his hand down the surprisingly soft skin of John's side to the rocky outcrop of his hip and then in, seeking the heat and heft of John's cock. 

Matt hadn't spent a lot of time thinking about his future. There was always so much _now_ to worry about. But in what thoughts he'd had he'd never imagined this; slow, molten heat and want—wanting _so much_ —from a man old enough to be his father, a man nothing like he thought he could or should want. 

John angles his hip away. Just a little. Just enough to make his desire known: _No. Don't touch._ At the same time, he pushes Matt's knees wider with his own, making him tight, taut, and more than halfway to breaking and just begging for it. 

"John," he says, tearing his mouth away with a wet sound. He's close and his breath pants out of him in little moans. John hasn't even reached for the lube yet, the condoms. "John... I'm going to... _ah_ come..." 

"Damn right you are," John agrees breathlessly, with a hint of a grin, and Matt gives up the fight with a groan, head flopping back on the pillow. 

When Matt is really close, John slips down his body with sudden, deadly speed. It hardly takes more than the touch of John's mouth, the hot wet curl of his tongue, for Matt to seize, orgasm lifting him up and slamming him down in hard pulses of _yes, yes, yes._

By the time Matt starts to come down, John is pressing him deeper into the mattress with that one hand, jerking himself in short, brutal strokes. 

"Oh, Christ, _John_." Matt's voice comes out weaker than he means it to but his whole body feels watery and soft, even as his spent cock twitches hard. John makes a noise, head tilting down toward Matt's until their foreheads grind together. Matt wishes he hadn't come yet. 

"John," he says again, wrecked. Then, stronger: "Come on, McClane." He reaches for John's cock again, John's frantically pistoning hand. His shoulder aches from the full pressure of John's weight and he barely manages to run his fingers over the wet, pearling head before John cries out and comes, hot spurts that stripe Matt's belly, his pubes, his already come-filthy cock. 

Oh, God, Matt wishes he hadn't come already. 

John collapses—mercifully—to the side, groping frantically on the nightstand for a tissue. Matt doesn't understand until John spits into it and then smacks his lips and tongue distastefully. 

"Don't think I'm ever getting used to the taste of that," John complains, but his face is still slack and softened with orgasm and he doesn't sound nearly as tough as he probably thinks he does. Matt's laugh comes up like bubbles of carbonation, startling even him, and he reaches for John again, this time to kiss him, licking the flavor of his own come out of John's mouth. 

Nah. Definitely not mad.

***

Matt is woken up the second time by his cell phone, shrilling somewhere from the vicinity of the foot of the bed. He used to have different ring tones for each of his handful of different friends, but after all his belongings blew up—and ninety percent of his friends and contacts vanished into the woodwork before he could say 'FBI'—those kinds of niceties seemed less important.

Head half-buried under the pillow, Matt whines pitiably...but the bed is empty. Again. There's no one to take pity on him. Matt groans and reverses direction, wriggling under the blanket until he comes out at the foot, groping for his discarded jeans. There aren't that many people that call him anymore and his hair is hanging in his eyes, so he just thumbs it on. "Um. Hello? This is Matt." 

"Matt? Hey. It's Lucy." 

The hand Matt's using to support himself slips out from underneath him. Matt slide-falls out of bed with a squawk, though he miraculously manages to keep hold of his cell. "Oh. Hey, Lucy, hi." 

"Are you all right?" 

"What? Yeah, sure. Fine, fine." Matt scrapes himself up to sitting position and tries to ignore his illogical impulse to cover his crotch with the blanket. Then he does it anyway. "What's going on?" 

"You're still in New York, right? You think you have time to meet me for coffee?" The thing about Lucy is that—rocky relationship with John aside—she is very much John McClane's daughter. Which means things that sound like questions generally _aren't_ ; they're thinly veiled threats. The problem is that with John, it's fucking sexy and with Lucy it's just fucking scary. Not that John can't be scary, too; Matt's just kind of screwed up on that score. 

"Um. Coffee? Sure. Okay." Now that his heartbeat is slowing to something like normal, he can hear John in the shower, voice raised in a surprisingly good rendition of "Swinging on a Star". "When? Where?" 

She gives him an address on 5th Avenue. "How about an hour?" 

The shower shuts off and a moment later, John appears in the doorway in nothing but a fraying towel slung low on his hips, shining up his bald head with another. Matt licks his lips. "Better make it an hour and a half."

***

"Oh, Matt, hi!" Lucy gives him a kiss on the cheek and a hug made awkward by her messenger bag and the foam cup in her hand. "Thanks for meeting me."

"Yeah, sure, hey." Matt pats her on the shoulder just as awkwardly, even though his hands are empty. Other than last night, he hasn't spoken to Lucy since... Hell, what's the word for it, even? Calling an amicable parting of the ways—after a handful of dates that hadn't gone much of anywhere—a 'break-up' seemed like an insult to good break-ups everywhere. "What's going on?" 

Lucy rolls her eyes. "Whoo, boy, what isn't?" Someone abandons a nearby table and Lucy slides smoothly into the vacated seat, gesturing Matt to join her. "My mom's in D.C. getting driven crazy by my grandmother, _she's_ driving Jack crazy—Jack's my brother—and, of course, _I'm_ the one that's got to hear about it all. And then my friend Judy—the one I'm staying with over break? She's having all this drama with her boyfriend Yusef and it's just..." Lucy whistles and rolls her eyes again, untangling her scarf from around her neck. "Crazy." 

Matt doesn't know how to respond to that in the slightest, so he settles for smiling politely, nodding and trying to catch the harried wait-dude's eye. He needs a stiff caffeine injection to get through this. When he finally manages, through frantic semaphore, to indicate his desire for coffee, he looks back at Lucy only to find her smiling ruefully at him. 

"I'm sorry. You didn't want to know all that." 

Matt shrugs. "No," he avers vaguely, "it's fine." 

Lucy laughs. "You should see your face! No...but. That wasn't why I asked you to meet me." She looks down, stroking the lid of her cup with one fingertip. Her plum-colored nail polish is chipped. 

"Yeah, okay, sure." Matt wipes his palms on the thighs of his jeans. The wait-dude suddenly slams down Matt's coffee and an enormous cinnamon roll gooey with icing that Matt doesn't remember ordering. Okay, slam is probably overstating it, but it makes Matt jump anyway. He looks up in time to see the guy wink at him and smile. _Oh._ "Thanks," he mutters into his first sip of liquid nirvana, wondering if the heat in his face means he's blushing. 

"Wow, what was _that_ about?" Lucy makes wide eyes and laughs. Not in a mean way, but as though it's the height of hilarity that the waiter might think Matt's gay or even interested. 

Hilarious.

Matt hums noncommittally into his coffee and resolutely does _not_ say: _"Well, Lucy, it would seem that getting fucked up, down and sideways by your dad has upped my queer quotient."_ Because that would be _bad._

The cinnamon roll is _really_ good, though. 

" _Any_ way." Lucy shakes herself, flipping her hair back over her shoulder. It's almost the same color as John's, though Matt wouldn't know that if he hadn't found pictures of John and his ex, Holly, hidden away in a box of old kitchenware that John inherited in the divorce. “You said last night that you're moving up here to NYC? Seriously?”

Matt shrugs, awkwardly trying to get out of his jacket without putting anyone's eye out, including his own. It seems inordinately warm, all of a sudden. “That's the plan.”

Lucy nods, but it's like she's listening to music in the car, hearing without really _listening_. “Cool, cool. So I guess you and my dad will be hanging out more often then, huh?”

Matt tenses and then shifts his weight on the chair. Lucy, mercifully, is looking down at her coffee and doesn't see him squirm. “Um. Yeah, I guess so. I hadn't thought about it, really.”

Lies. All lies. 

The look Lucy slants up at him says that maybe she knows it's a lie. Or maybe not. "Well, that's why I wanted to talk to you. Warn you." 

"Warn me?" Matt repeats, not sure where she's going with that. He'd really tried to be on his very best platonic geek behavior while Lucy was there but that didn't mean she hadn't sniffed them out anyway. Which is why he'd wanted to leave in the first place, even though a drive back down to Camden on the day after Christmas sounded like the stuff of nightmares. But it was infinitely preferable to sitting in an overcrowded and overpriced cafe in Brooklyn getting told off by your almost-ex: _stay away from my father._

The corner of Lucy's mouth curves down, a not quite sad line. Her voice is almost sad, though, when she says, "Look, I love my dad, okay? We don't always see eye to eye on stuff and he can drive me crazy sometimes—a _lot_ of the time—but I love my dad." The squareness of her gaze doesn't leave any room for doubt. Not that Matt has any. Only the people you love can drive you _that_ crazy. 

Not that Matt has a whole lot of experience with that. 

Matt nods. "Yeah, Lucy. Sure. Of course." 

"Okay. But. My dad?" Lucy sighs, tapping her cup lid again. "You gotta understand. My parents' marriage lasted several years past its shelf life because of my dad the hero." She laughs again, but humorlessly. "Don't get me wrong. My dad... He's great at the hero thing. My dad is fucking _awesome_ at the hero thing." Lucy's mouth does this thing where it looks like she can't make up her mind whether to smile or frown and she shrugs one shoulder in a bad attempt to look careless. "It's just everything else he kind of sucks at." 

The melting sweetness of the cinnamon bun turns thick and sour, effectively gluing Matt's mouth shut. 

"And I know..." Lucy sighs again, sitting back in her chair and looking with Matt with old, knowing eyes. "Look, Matt, I'm glad you and my dad are friends, I really am..." There's no irony or special _tone_ to Lucy's voice when she says 'friend', a realization that makes Matt almost dizzy. "My dad... He's been lonely for a long time. A long time. And you—" 

It probably shouldn't startle Matt when Lucy reaches across the table to take his hand, but it does and he's hard pressed not to flinch away. He can tell Lucy notices, though, by the way her eyes soften at him. It's annoying as much as it's embarrassing and either way, it turns his face to flame again. "I just don't want you to get hurt," Lucy says finally. 

Matt tugs his hand from hers and slurps enough coffee to unstick his mouth. "Lucy—" 

Lucy shakes her head, hair tumbling down into her face again. "I know things didn't work out with us, Matt. And I won't lie; it stung some when you just...dumped me like that." 

"I didn't dump you," Matt protests, turning his hand up. 

"Oh, my God, you totally dumped me, Matt." Though her tone is outraged, Lucy's smiling and a lot more warmly than before. "But that's okay, you know? You've got...stuff...going on. Did you ever see Dr. Larrabee again?" 

"No." It comes out curt, hard—a lot like John says it, now that he thinks about it—and immediately, Matt tries to backpedal. "I mean, no, I'm fine, Lucy. I don't... I'm fine. I'm doing really good, actually." He can't tell her _why_ he's good, of course, but that doesn't make it any less true. He _is_ doing good. Better than he thought he could. 

"That's great, Matt! Really." It sounds truthful, an effortless sincerity that must come from Holly, since it definitely didn't come from John. 

Matt's conscious of a desire to ask Lucy about her—about Holly, about John's wife and Matt's competition and rival, even now. Back in the beginning, he'd looked it all up; Nakatomi Plaza, Hans Gruber, the whole fiasco at Dulles with Esperanza, Simon Gruber and his riddled bait-and-switch—everything. Everything he could lay his hands on, everything he could find, trying to figure out John fucking McClane. It was both ironic and irritating, having his only sources of information come from the exaggerations and lies of mainstream media, but it's not like he could ask John, for obvious reasons. And given how he and Lucy had ended up, it just seemed tacky to look her up for the sole purpose of grilling her for information. 

And now this. 

"I mean...you do. You look great," Lucy goes on, catching his wrist again. "You look so great. I just. My dad's not a bad guy. He just really, really _sucks_ at being there when there aren't guns or bombs involved. And I know he saved your life and he's _woo-hoo_ John McClane," she twirls her fingers mockingly, "but just...don't count on him for too much. You know?" 

And what the hell else is Matt supposed to say to that, except, "Yeah, Lucy. Got it. Loud and clear."

***

"You know, since I hadn't heard from you in so long, I was starting to get worried." John can still hear some of that worry scratching up Al's mellow voice. Still, John can't feel mad at him; Al's stuck by him through thick and some pretty damn thin and that's earned him a little leeway.

"You sound like my freakin' grandmother, may she rest in peace." 

Al chuckles, rich and belly deep. "You should be so lucky as to have a grandmother cool as me, McClane. I gotta say, though. You sound good. Better than I was expecting." 

"Yeah, I'm doing all right." John can't help the grin that breaks out across his mug as he says the words, as grudging as he tries to make them sound. 

He knows why Al's calling. These days, Christmastime is practically the only time they talk, but Al knows what this time of year is like for John. Or he knows historically what this time of year is like for John. Still, for more years than John's comfortable counting up, Al Powell's been the only person John could count as a friend and, even happier than he's been in a long time, it's good to hear his voice. 

"You sound like it," Al agrees. "Better than all right. What's going on in the Big Apple, man?" 

"I'm...kinda...seeing somebody." John's kind of amazed at how easy the words come out. Almost as amazing as the slow warmth that creeps through him for saying it out loud at all. _Huh._ He hasn't said it out loud. To anyone. 

"Shut your mouth!" Al laughs again but it's a good sound, a happy sound. "Now I know you're lying, old man. What woman would be crazy enough to go out with scarred-up geezer like you?" 

"Hey, this scarred-up old geezer can still kick your ass, Powell!" It's a good thing that John's mouth can move without any prompting from his brain, because when Al says _woman_ , the bottom drops out of his good mood like kicked and shattered glass. Of course, Al would think it's a woman. Why wouldn't he? He's met Holly and what's the likelihood that John McClane, red-blooded American man and real life action-hero, would suddenly turn faggot? 

And how the hell can John even begin to explain that to him? Especially when he doesn't totally get it himself. 

Fortunately, he's spared that decision by the beep of his call waiting. John tips the phone back to look at the display. Lucy. "Hey, Al, I gotta go. That's my little girl on the other line." 

"Yeah, sure. Connie's on my back about visiting the in-laws today anyway. But I wanna hear all about it real soon, man. I'm serious!" 

"Yeah, Al. Sure." 

"Merry Christmas, John." 

"Merry Christmas, man." 

John clicks the phone over. "Hey, Lucy. What's the good word?" 

"Dad, what the hell do you think you're doing?" 

At least she's still calling him Dad. "I'm sorry, honey," he says sweetly. "That's too broad a category. You're going to have to narrow it down for your old man." Still, the sourness that messed up his conversation with Al is still there, like the nights that John forgets he's too old to eat tamales and chilies relleños anymore. 

Lucy sighs deeply, something she perfected in her early teens. "Look, Matt is fragile, okay? And it's really shitty of you—and typical, Dad, so freaking typical—to do this to him when he's so fucked up." 

John feels speechless, no small feat. Yeah, he knows Matt's a little fucked up after the fire sale—but who isn't? John's plenty fucked up and he's doing okay. And fragile... John doesn't even know where Lucy's pulling that one from. And still he doesn't know exactly what Lucy knows, what she's guessed. "What, exactly, do you think I'm doing to Matt?" John asks finally, cautiously. The dull throb of headache settles in the back of his neck, where one of the vertebra is permanently just a little off-center. 

Lucy laughs, sounding eerily like Holly. "God, Dad, this is so like you! So...what? You've fucked up your relationship with Jack and me—" 

"Hey! Language!" 

" _Fucked up_ your relationship with Jack and me," Lucy repeats, "and so you think you're going to play father figure to Matt and that's going to make it all right?" 

"That...wasn't exactly what I had in mind, no," John says weakly, unable to come up with an appropriate come-back. 

"Are you the one that made him quit therapy? I bet you are. Oh, I should've seen that one!" Lucy laughs again, the same jagged tone. "Are you the reason he dumped me too?" Lucy pauses. "No. You know what? No. Because this isn't even _about_ me and Matt, this is about _you_ , John." 

And here they go with the John, just like clockwork. 

"I know it's got to feel really good to have someone hanging on your every word and everything but you need to think about Matt. He worships the ground you walk on..." 

What? _What?_ Where is Lucy even _getting this from_? 

"...and he needs a friend, Dad. He needs a real friend, someone who's going to _be there_ and I'm not trying to be a bitch, Dad, I'm really not, but we both know your track record for being there. Matt deserves better than that. He needs better than that." 

_Someone younger, someone better, someone...more._ Lucy's not saying anything John hasn't thought himself. Of course, John's keenly fucking aware of the difference between knowing you're a piece of shit and hearing it from someone else's mouth. From the mouths of babes, no less. Still, John's got those last embers of stubbornness in him to say, "Well, tell me how you really feel about it, Luce." 

"Dad—" 

"No, Lucy. You had your little say and I heard you. But contrary to what you and your mom like to think, I'm a grown man. Capable of making grown man-like decisions. So while I appreciate your advice, I'm still your father and I'm going to do what I want to do and be friends with whoever I want to be friends with." 

"This is so like you," Lucy complains and John doesn't have to work hard to imagine her wounded deer look. 

"Yeah," John says, a hell of a lot more serenely than he feels. "It is. And you should be used to that by now."

***

John never knows what the hell to do with himself on his enforced Christmastime vacation.  
In the bad old days, he'd crawl into a bottle and not come out again (which is why Al always calls to check up on him) but he doesn't do that anymore. Even before Matt he'd been working his way out of the pit he'd fallen into after the divorce. Not that he was blaming Holly; the only reason they'd lasted as long as they had was because of Holly's determination. John wasn't under any illusions as to who was the screw-up in their little family.

But the bottom line was that without the booze to distract him and Matt off doing God only knows what with his friends, John doesn't know what the hell to do with himself. Lucy's call sits in the back of his mind like an itch between his shoulder blades, annoying and impossible to scratch. He knew Lucy and Matt had gone on a couple dates. He tried not to think about it—because there was only so much about their relationship that John could handle at one time—but he knew. Matt had blamed the fire sale and John had accepted it. Why not? John didn't have any reason to think the kid was lying. ( _except you think **everyone's** a liar, John_ ) 

Except the kid had been lying. About all sorts of things, apparently. 

_Are you the one that made him quit therapy? I bet you are._

John's in the middle of putting together a turkey sandwich he doesn't really want when he hears the scrape of Matt's key in the door. The sound makes him stop for a moment, but with a mental shrug, he goes back to slamming lettuce, tomato and leftover turkey on the defenseless bread. John tracks Matt by sound, the thump of his ever-present bag on the coffee table, the double clunk of his shoes, whisper of his coat. John gets lost after that, loses Matt somewhere between there and the winter-chilled hands slipping around his waist and under the hem of his tee-shirt. Lips only slightly warmer brush over John's naked nape. Heat snakes down John's neck to pool in his belly. 

"Hey." 

"Hey." John leaves the sandwich on the cutting board and loosens Matt's hands enough to turn around, look him in the face. It's weird. It hasn't even been that long and already it's like he's seeing Matt for the first time. It's not like he spends a lot of time mooning over Matt. He knows what Matt feels like and that's usually enough. 

But he looks at Matt now, really _looks_ at him, sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes under eyebrows that have more hair than John's got on his whole head, the big, slightly crooked nose, soft, fragile-looking mouth. There's only about an inch difference in their heights, but it always feels like Matt's looking up at him. Brushing the ball of his thumb down Matt's soft cheek, he has to wonder if Lucy's not right about Matt, about _them_. 

John leans in for the kiss anyway, because he never claimed to be a good man. Matt tastes coffee-bitter, but with lingering sweetness underneath. For a moment, Matt holds himself stiff. Then, just before John decides to pull back, Matt sighs out into the kiss and presses himself close, wrapping both arms around John again. 

It's easy to think of bending Matt over the counter right here. Strip Matt down, rub his hardened cock in the crease of that tight ass until Matt's voice breaks and splinters for begging and then fuck him slow, deep and thorough until they're both too tired to do more than stagger into the bedroom and sleep. It's certainly better than the alternative, some long, drawn out, bullshit conversation he doesn't want to have. 

John breaks the kiss slowly, guiding Matt away from him. "Put your hands on the counter." 

Matt does, making that low, atonal turned-on hum in the back of his throat, pushing his hips back. But when John spreads over his back, reaching around to fumble for the button on Matt's jeans, Matt turns his head just far enough to catch John's eye and asks, "You ever think about doing this the other way around?" 

John blinks. Then, just as quiet: "You ever think about telling me you were seeing a shrink?" 

Matt's eyes flutter—his eyelashes are as long as any girl John's ever dated, swear to God—through a bunch of different emotions: lust gives way to confusion, confusion to annoyance. 

Yeah, that one John can read crystal clear. 

"I'm not _seeing_ a shrink, John." Matt's voice drips with fake sweetness, edged like a razor. 

"Yeah, that's what I heard," John says, showing his willingness to cut himself. 

"Fucking Lucy," Matt mutters, pushing John back from him. He turns around, tugging the hem of his shirt down, hair falling in his face. 

"Hey. Don't talk like that about her." 

Matt looks up, mouth pressing pissily thin. "Your daughter can't hold water, John." 

John wasn't really aware of his anger until it came bubbling up, quick and dirty, familiar as that first belt of Irish whiskey warming up his belly. His body feels stiff with phantom aches from old wounds. "Maybe if you hadn't lied to me, she wouldn't have to." 

"Jesus." Matt's mouth turns up in a not-smile and he rakes a hand through his hair. "I didn't fucking _lie_ to you." 

"No? What are we calling it now? Creative editing?" 

"I _didn't tell you_ because there was nothing to tell. I went to my court ordered sessions but other than that? I don't need therapy, so I quit. _All of this before we even hooked up_." Matt snorts and then shakes his head. "But this is so typical, right?

“ _I_ chase you, _I_ make the first move, fully expecting to get punched in the face." Another snort, this time more of a huff. "Hell, my face if I was _lucky._ I let you _fuck_ me... Jesus Christ, John it was almost two years before I even dared ask for a freaking blow job!" Matt throws his hands up and, just like all the times Holly got all wound up, John finds himself drawing in tight, stepping back from Matt, crossing his arms. In contrast, Matt looks mostly the same, slouched with his hands crammed back in his pockets. 

Jack used to stand like that, John remembers with a pang. And it had taken John the better part of two years to train him out of it, get him to stand up straight, head high. But with Matt, it just seems part of him and John's thoughts about that long, hunched body are anything but paternal. Still, he's never seen Matt's face with the expression it has now, angry and shuttered closed. It's an uncomfortable look for John, who's not used to feeling as though Matt's closed off to him in any capacity. 

"You think this is how I pictured my life turning out, fal—messing around with some guy old enough to be my father? You think I thought I'd turn out queer any more than you did? I'm here because I _want_ to be here, John! But that's never going to mean shit to you, is it? Not compared to the least little bullshit thing that Lucy—or Holly, fucking _Holly_ —comes up with." 

"I already warned you once about talking about them, kid." 

Matt steps in close. "I'm not your kid, John." 

"And they're my family! Just because you don't seem to give a shit about _your_ family—" 

_"I don't have a family!"_ What little space there is between them seems to get even smaller, the taut-dangerous tone of Matt's voice filling up the air between them. 

John can't quite tell what his expression must look like, but whatever it is, it makes Matt smile and huff a half-laugh. "Yeah, didn't know that, did you, John? _Because you never fucking asked._ And you know? That's fine. I get it. I get what a huge fucking burden it is on you to keep me like your dirty little secret. Because God forbid John McClane might like fucking another man." 

"I never said that!" 

"You didn't have to say it, John. It was written all over your face, the minute Lucy walked in the door!"

_"Me?"_ John demanded. In the way some things carve themselves into his mind forever, he remembers the expression on Matt's face perfectly and the look Matt threw at him, desperate and pleading all at once. What else was he supposed to have done, with Matt looking at him like that, Don't Ask, Don't Tell practically emblazoned across his forehead? "Christ, kid, I thought you were a dope smoker when I met you and now I know it's true." 

"Oh—" Matt breathes out noisily, the end of it turning into a laugh, deeper than his normal voice. "Oh, that's rich, coming from..." 

John's cell shrills suddenly, silencing them both like a slap to the face. John's hand automatically jerks toward the holster, but he stops himself, still staring Matt down, hating the bitter anger in the other man's eyes. Where did this come from? How had things gone from laughs and slow, easy lays to this shouting match? 

Jesus, it's like being married all over again. 

Matt rolls his eyes, huffs and shrugs one shoulder, flapping his hand toward John. "Go ahead," he says, quieter than before, sounding almost defeated. "It..." Matt sighs. "It could be important." Matt turns around and leaves the little open square of the kitchen to flop down on the couch and fling his arm across his eyes.

John slips his cell from the holster and looks at the display. "It's Holly." John's not sure why he says it out loud. 

"Of course it is," Matt mutters without moving. He waves his hand again. "Don't mind me." 

John makes a face, but he flips the phone open. "Hey. Holly." 

"Hello, John." The bitter acrimony that surrounded the divorce has mostly given way to a kind of resigned amusement at his expense. Personally, John thinks he liked it better when she was perpetually pissed. "Did I catch you at a bad time?" 

"No, it's fine." John thinks he hears Matt snort, but by the time he looks, Matt's just lying still again. For once, John doesn't see him as a boy, a kid; Matt looks oddly grown sprawled out like that, like John himself over too many late nights. "What's going on?" 

"Well." Holly sighs. "You know I'm down in D.C. visiting my parents, right?" 

"So I heard." John folds his free hand across his ribs and leans back against the counter, still watching Matt from under his eyelashes. 

"So, I was wondering if you'd have time to come down. Have a family dinner. Talk." 

Inwardly, John groans, pushing off the counter and turning his back to Matt. Holly's talks never mean anything good for him. "Aw, Jesus, Holly, what now?" 

"Is it too much to ask that you make some time to eat a meal with your son and daughter, John? It's Christmas." Holly's voice sharpens all too familiarly, striking deep in the guilt centers of John's brain. 

"Christmas was over two days ago. And last I checked, neither you nor the kids were too interested in breaking bread with me." John's voice picks up its own edge. It doesn't take much, at this point in the evening's proceedings. "C'mon, Holly. What's the deal?" 

Holly's sigh is deeper this time, more exasperated. "Look, John, I don't want this to be difficult. Can we please just bypass all the witty banter and try to be civil to each other? Your kids expressed an interest in having a meal with you. Do you think you can make time in your busy schedule for that or not?" 

"Yeah," John agrees, a sour taste in his mouth like after a bender. "Sure. When?" 

"My parents are going to a party on the 30th. I know how well you and my mom get along, so I figured that would be the best day for all concerned." 

Thank God for small fucking favors, at least. "Yeah, that's fine. What time?" 

"How's five?" 

"Yeah. Fine." 

Mercifully, Holly doesn't waste time on pleasantries. When she hangs up, John tosses the phone onto the counter. God, he wants a drink. He _really_ fucking wants a drink. Instead, he drags ass over to the couch, shoving Matt's feet off the arm and onto the floor. "Hey. Matt." 

Matt sits up, pulling all the way to the other end. "So what did The Great Holly want?" 

The thin cooled crust over his anger cracks like brittle glass. "Jesus, Farrell, could you not hang from my sac, too?" 

"Oh, gee, John and here I thought that's what you liked me for. Suck your cock, roll on my belly...just as long as nobody knows about it and I shut the fuck up." 

"You really need to shut the hell up, right about now," John warns, the ugly stiff feeling freezing his bones again. "Don't do this." 

"Don't do what? Don't dare criticize Saint fucking Holly? Jesus Christ, John, _you're divorced_!" Matt throws his hands up, voice rising in pitch. "Okay? You've been divorced for more than a decade! When the fuck are you going to _finally_ let her the fuck go?" 

"She's the mother of my kids, Matt. You don't just _let_ that go. All those years, you don't know what I put her through..." 

Matt surges up to his knees, faster than John thought the kid could move. "And what about what she's put _you_ through, huh? Marriages are made up of two people, John. And when they fall apart, it's not just one person that fucks it all up." 

"What the hell would you know about it?" John demands. "You, sitting up in your apartment with your little dolls—what the hell do you know about relationships? Who the hell have you ever cared about enough to know how it goes?" 

Matt's jaw knots. "You, asshole," he says flatly, getting up from the couch. He grabs his coat from the hook and his shoes from the floor. It's against John's nature to sit passive on the couch and not do anything but for a change, he's actually afraid of what he might do, heart hammering in his chest and pulse pounding in his temples so hard he feels it down his spine. 

"I cared about you." 

Matt walks out.

***

 _December 28_

John spends the early hours of December 28th in the Emergency Room at New York Methodist, making sure his hand isn't broken. 

Stupid wall was harder than it looked. 

"Should teach you to go hitting walls," his nurse, Maoi, scolds, clicking her teeth at him in disapproval. 

John shrugs. Definitely no stranger to disapproval here. He likes Maoi all right, but frankly, she's an amateur when it comes to guilt-tripping. "The wall was looking at me funny. Man's got his pride, you know?" 

Maoi snorts. "Sometimes a man's got too much pride." She shakes her head at him and then goes back to cleaning out the blood and plaster bits from his knuckles. She's got a light touch too; John appreciates that. "Fight with the wife?" 

John wiggles his bare ring finger. It still looks weird to him, even now. "Divorced." 

"Ahh." Maoi nods wisely, her straight, coarse black hair falling from her topknot in delicate lines. "Fight with the ex?" 

John thinks about the solid, decisive click when Matt closed the door behind him and the way his stomach felt when he heard it. "I...don't know yet." He winces as she tweezes a chunk of something from the wounds. "You always ask this many questions?" 

"I'm sorry, am I bothering you?" Maoi glances up and sidelong at him, a smile curving her mouth. "You prefer someone mean and taciturn? Because I can ask Ruth to come over here and take care of you instead, if you're so opposed to a little friendly conversation..." 

John looks over her shoulder at Ruth, a burly and sour-faced woman who bears a more than passing resemblance to his Uncle Bruce. The crazy one. "Nah, I think I'm all right." 

"Huh." Maoi tosses her head and laughs. "You're definitely not bad." 

Belatedly, it occurs to John that Maoi is flirting with him. God, what a perfect capper to the freaking night. Not that Maoi's not cute as a frigging button, compact little body and a gorgeous heart-shaped face under all that thick, trailing hair. But after getting the smack down from Lucy, dealing with Holly and fighting with Matt, he doesn't want or need any more trouble. 

Fucking Matt. 

"So what did she do?" 

"Hmm?" John snaps back to himself and finds Maoi looking at him expectantly. He was married for thirteen years, though; like most husbands, he's got a thirty-second playback in his head for moments just like this. "What did who do?" 

"Your ex." Maoi shakes her head as though it's obvious. "Gotta be driving you a hella crazy, make you hit a wall. She cheating on you?" 

"I didn't say it was my ex." 

He's used to thinking of Holly as his ex. In fact, it occurs to him—with Matt's words echoing loud and clear through his aching skull—that pretty soon they'll be divorced for just as long as they were married. But Holly wasn't the reason he'd put his fist through the wall. And Matt... 

"Didn't say it wasn't, either." Maoi edges the stool closer between John's legs, eyebrows arching as she darts another look at him. 

He doesn't want to think of Matt as his ex. 

"You almost done, Maoi? X-ray's ready for him." A second nurse comes into the curtained area, looking over her wire-rimmed glasses at a clipboard. 

"Mmm. Yeah. Just a second." The look Maoi gives him is teasing, a sparkle in her bright brown eyes. "I think he's about to ask me to dinner." 

The other nurse laughs. "Yeah, all right." She gives John a look. "Just don't take too long." 

"Dinner, huh?" John's amused despite himself. "You always this forward?" 

Maoi gives his knuckles a final wipe and shrugs. "Sure. Why not? I work in the ER. If ever there was a reminder that life is short, this is it. I don't have time to waste." She picks up a roll of gauze and repositions his hand. "Besides, I like you." 

"I like you too." John clicks his tongue regretfully. "But I think my boyfriend might have something to say about that." It feels weird to say the word 'boyfriend'; he almost stutters across it, something he hasn't done since he was a kid. 

Boyfriend. _Boy_ friend. 

"No," Maoi says, disbelieving. She gives him a doubtful look, full lips pursed, head tilted. "You're lying."

John spreads his free hand. "'Fraid not." He leans a little closer and whispers confidingly, "And he's really the jealous type." 

Maoi rolls her eyes and shakes her head again. "I can see why, with you at home. Mmmph." She eyeballs him head to toe and John—honest to God—feels himself blush up. "So goddamn typical." 

John laughs. "That's me. Typical."

***

 _This is so fucking typical._

Rammstein, Red Bull and a foamy head of rage get Matt through the long drive back to Camden. He does _not_ think about John. He is definitely not at all thinking about John, stupid, pigheaded and perpetually in denial. And he's not _going_ to think about John, because he has better things to do with his time than mope like a 14-year old emo kid. _He's_ going to be just freaking _fine._

Fucking John. 

His anger lasts long enough for him to get home and open the door on his cold, dark apartment. It's only been a couple days, but it smells stale, dusty, like no one actually lives here. It's not entirely untrue, though something about that thought makes Matt's stomach twist hard enough that he feels nauseous.

Matt kicks off his shoes, lets his coat drop to the floor and then crawls into bed, pulling the spread up over his head. 

Everything else can wait. 

He wakes from a dream of wrestling with Gabriel's goon for the gun and, in the process, shooting first Lucy and then John. It's too vivid, too real; he smells the blood, the nasty shit-smell of John's guts where the bullet went through, even after he claws his way up, crying and sniveling even in his sleep. It's reflex to reach for his cell, it's habit; John normally talks him down from his nightmares. More than just habit, he _wants_ to call John. It's stupid and he knows it was just a dream...but he wants to hear John's voice. 

"This is so fucking _lame_ ," Matt moans, turning his face into the pillow. His jeans are twisted around on his hips, threatening to end his childbearing ability forever and he thinks he's actually _lying_ on his cell phone if the ache in his hip is any indication. There's no smell of John on his pillowcases, on his sheets. John's never been here. Matt's always gone to him. 

And if that isn't a metaphor for their whole damned...thing, Matt don't know what is. 

Matt turns on his back and absently tugs his jeans loose. He's not going to call John. John is fine. John isn't losing a moment's fucking sleep thinking about Matt or Matt's problems. 

_Of which you have plenty._

Maybe he should've told John about quitting therapy, though he honestly doesn't know what difference it makes. Three uncomfortable, stumbling sessions on a couch that probably cost as much as his computer while Dr. Larrabee _hrmned_ under his breath and took notes. It was like being a kid all over again, memories Matt doesn't want any more than he wants to think about Thomas Gabriel _ever again_. 

Too bad his dreams aren't as cooperative. 

He wants to be angry at Lucy—and he is—but it's hard to hold onto it, knowing that she's only looking out for his best interests, even after he dumped her. Stopped seeing her. Whatever. Matt doesn't have a lot of friends. Fewer now than before, which is probably why he's moping now. It's nice to know Lucy's still a friend, even if she is _completely_ cramping his style. 

_He's fine. He's perfectly fine._

Matt doesn't know how long he lies there, staring into the Rorschach stucco of his ceiling, letting the nightmare ebb away from the surface and slink back to wherever it bleeds up from. It's a fight, not to think about how much easier this is with John to talk him down or fuck it out of him. It's a fight not to think about John, period. 

Finally, when his chest is less tight and the phantom ache of his knee has dulled, Matt closes his eyes. 

With his eyes closed, it's easier to pretend that his hand belongs to someone else as it slips into his jeans, reaching. His fingers move by instinct, by muscle memory, punctuated only by the rising, anticipatory rise of his breath. 

_You have reached the desk of Detective John McClane, NYPD. If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 911. If this is not an emergency, leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can._

Matt sighs out and hits **END** on his cell phone, letting it drop from his fingers. It slithers from the pillow and falls to the floor with a clunk. "So fucking lame," he mutters to himself again and pulls the blanket back over his head.

***

It's a truism of John's life that he gets yelled at a lot.

"Where's the kid?" 

Of course, sometimes—not always, mind you, but sometimes—he's got it coming. 

John tosses his plastic coated menu down on the chipped Formica. "Christ, Deb, don't give me a hard time, all right? I'm having a hell of a morning." 

"So I see." Deb's been a waitress at John's hole-in-the-wall diner for nearly as long as John's been coming here. Which is to say, a long damn time. 

And which, unfortunately, in Deb's mind, has given her free reign to comment on John's life—or lack thereof—whenever she damn well feels like it. She eyeballs his messed-up hand and ignores the two hopeful pushes he gives his mug in her direction, maliciously withholding the coffee she's holding _right there_. "Where's the kid, John? I hardly ever see you in here without him, anymore." 

It goes without saying that she absolutely adores Matt. 

John shrugs. 

"You finally chased him off, huh?" Deb sets the coffee pot on the counter with distressing finality and crosses her arms under her heavy breasts, scowling fiercely down at John. 

"I didn't chase him anywhere! He walked out on his own two feet," John growls, stung. He picks up the menu again and hands it to Deb, cracked plastic edging picking at the gauze wrapping his hand. Hand's not broken though, thank God for small favors. "Two eggs, runny, and a side of bacon, crisp. And coffee. Please." 

He hopes that will be the end of it—and that maybe the 'please' will win him a few brownie points—but of course it isn't the end of anything. Deb snatches the menu from his hand, scowl deepening, and then plops herself down on the other side of the booth. "You listen to me, John McClane," she hisses furiously. "You have been coming in here for more years than I want to think about and while I never pegged you for a gay, I'd have to be blind _and_ a fool not to see how happy that boy makes you. It's like a whole different person." She points one finger at him, the nail painted a strange, garish lime green. "And you have to be a damn fool to let him get away." 

"Aw, Deb..." It's mildly embarrassing to realize that he's been made by Deb, and so easily, but not as embarrassing as he'd thought it would be. Even when she calls him gay. He guesses he and Matt have been in here a lot recently. He doesn't remember acting any different than he normally does, though. 

"Don't you 'aw, Deb' me, McClane. You think you get a lot of chances, at our age? You think there's a hundred Prince Charmings just waiting around the corner?" 

John leans toward her like he's going to tell a secret. "He's not that charming." 

Deb swats his hand—the fucked-up one, of course. It's like getting swatted with his grandma's wooden spoon and John jerks his hand back. "Don't you smart mouth, John. Don't you dare!" And John would swear on a stack of Bibles that Deb's tearing up, her faded blue eyes bright and dewy. "That boy loves you. And if you can't see that..." 

"Deb." John puts his hand over hers. "I know, okay? I know." And he does, he guesses, if he lets himself think about it. It's just that he's really good at not thinking about it. "I'll call him." Deb squints at him, looking doubtful. John sighs. " _I'll call him._ Okay? Now can I have my breakfast? Please?" 

Deb pushes herself up from the booth, the tired vinyl groaning. "Oh, no. I'm not feeding ya." 

"What?" John blinks at her. "What do you mean, you're not feeding me?" 

"A little hunger should give you some perspective on this whole thing. Be good for you." She mock-punches him in the arm. "I don't want to see you back in here without the kid." 

"You're not serious." 

Deb fixes him with a look. "You want to try me on that, Sunshine?" 

No fucking breakfast. Well. Isn't this a bitch? Now it's _serious._

***

 _December 29_

"So what happened to your family?" 

Matt scrubs his gritty-tired eyes with the heel of his hand and tries to process the noises squawking out the earpiece at him as actual words. His shoulder aches from where he crashed into the nightstand, diving for the phone. 

Only fucking _John_. 

If it had been anyone but John, Matt doesn't know he would've answered the phone at all, half-dozing to a DVD of _Invader Zim_. Because it was John, Matt didn't really want to answer, except he had to confess a pretty powerful curiosity as to what John had to say to him, after everything they'd already said. 

That's all it was, really. Just curiosity. 

"Christ, McClane, what time is it?" Matt gives up on the eyes and rubs the aching point of his shoulder.

"It's not even midnight yet." John sounds strangely smug about that. As well he might. Matt squints blearily at his alarm clock and groans. "Am I disturbing your beauty sleep, Princess?" 

"I just usually spend all my time around this old geezer and it's cramping my style," Matt shoots back, a smile trying to break across his face despite his best efforts. _He's fine. He's alive. He's calling me. Argh. No. I'm mad at him. Very, very mad._ "I'm not used to being up this late anymore." 

"You wound me," John says, sounding nothing of the sort. "So I'm asking. What happened to your family?" 

Matt knows this can go one of two ways. He can either accept this very John McClane method of apology—i.e. pretend nothing ever happened in the first place—or he can pitch a fit and go on being miserable about the whole thing. 

Not that he's miserable without John. And especially not after just two days. Because that's just pathetic.

But the regular sex had been nice. He's a guy, right? Guys like sex. And the sad fact of the matter is that John is pretty much Matt's sole dispenser of said sex. So being the bigger man here is like...enlightened self interest. 

That doesn't mean he wants to have a big heart-to-heart about his family, though. 

"They're dead, McClane." He doesn't mean for his voice to come out as flat as it does. He _means_ to sound breezy and nonchalant about the whole thing. Because it doesn't bother him. Not really. Plenty of people grow up with no one to speak of. And look at how having a family ties John up in knots. He's totally better off. "They died when I was three years old. I don't even remember them." 

He'd had a picture, watermarked and sun-faded, just about the only thing he'd been able to hang onto through it all. But it had been in his apartment—along with all the rest of his things—when it blew up. He didn't know how to feel about the fact that it had been more than six months before he remembered.

Mostly, he didn't feel anything about it at all.

"Aw, _fuck_ , Matty, I'm sorry." There is a careful hierarchy to the names John uses for him. _Matty_ is the rarest, generally reserved for two or so seconds before John's about to come. Its appearance here feels strange and, at the same time, kindles heat in Matt's chest and stomach. "Even when I'm trying to patch shit up, I fuck it up. Forget it. This was a mistake." 

"Wait!" Matt sits up, hearing in John's voice his intention to hang up. "It's no big deal. Really. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't bug me. Like I said, I don't even remember them. I just... I don't have anybody, you know? Not everybody does." 

"You've got me." 

The words hit Matt with the velocity and impact of a fist to the gut—he knows of what he speaks—and for a moment, he literally can't breathe around them. It's not that he didn't know on some level that it was true, but knowing and hearing John say it out loud are two very different animals. 

"Yeah," Matt says finally, weakly. "I guess I do." 

Silence falls between them again, awkward and full of edges. Matt can almost feel it start to careen sideways, a car on thin ice that's on the edge of spinning out of control. Desperately, he gropes for the wheel. 

"So. You've got that dinner with Holly and everybody tomorrow." 

Oh, man. Facepalm, Matt. Very smooth.

"Yeah." John's tone borders on suspicious and Matt can picture his expression, blank as John's bald head except for the flinching wariness of his eyes. 

"That's going to be a hell of a drive," Matt says, an inkling of an idea glimmering in the flailing darkness of his mind. "Especially with the holidays and all. You'll be in the car all damn day." 

"What can you do?" John doesn't sound appeased in the least. 

Matt sighs, though he's careful to do so without any actual sound. "Well, I was just thinking. Camden to D.C. and back is a lot shorter. I'd be happy to put you up for a couple days, if you wanted." John doesn't say anything. "You know...if it was easier." 

John still doesn't say anything for a minute and Matt's starting to sweat, annoyed with himself for doing so, for getting sucked back in again and so easily. Fucking John. Was this all just so he could get the last word? Convince himself that he's a lot better without some fucked-up orphan kid? He knows what cops think about kids like him in general, foster kids, trouble kids. Not just cops, for that matter... 

"So...if I can dig my car out of the snow, think you'll still be up in a couple hours?" 

The spinning hamster wheel of Matt's brain comes to an abrupt halt, tossing the little brain hamster out into the metaphorical cedar chips. "You coming down tonight?" Should he sound so surprised? He _is_ surprised. This is strangely...easy. 

"That would be the implication, yes," John answers wryly, a grin in his voice to match the one on Matt's face. 

"Look who's using big words! Guess you _can_ really teach old dogs new tricks." Matt looks around his studio with a critical eye. It isn't very big and he doesn't have much. He'd never quite found the time or motivation to do anything with it. And he'd been up at John's so much, the reason he's planning on moving in the first place.

On the other hand, as long as it has a bed and TV, John probably won't give a shit one way or the other. And if he's really lucky... "Bring the lube and stuff," he says before he can think about it. "I don't have any." 

Too late, he realizes he's as much told John that he's not getting any elsewhere. Though, after seven months, they're probably past that point, right? As much time as they spend together, he feels pretty sure John's not hooking up with anyone else. Pretty sure. 

John's laugh interrupts that troubling thought. "First thing I packed," he says, voice deepening and roughening in a way that makes Matt's stomach tighten with anticipation. "Don't fall asleep. I'll be there soon." 

"I won't," Matt promises, barely keeping himself from adding _hurry_. 

"Soon as I can," John says, just as though he heard Matt's unspoken thought.

Matt's smiling as he hangs up the line. No. He hasn't been miserable without John at all.

***

 _December 30_

"So. This is my place." Matt gestures lamely with one hand, the other tucked tight in his front pocket. The toes of one bare foot scratch against the instep of the other.

And it's not that John didn't know he'd been an asshole, but, watching the kid practically vibrating with agitated nervousness, he's reminded all over again that he's been a _giant_ asshole. Which is unfortunately not new to him, but that doesn't mean he likes it. Still, doing his best to play it cool, he takes an obligatory look around. 

There's not much to see. Matt's studio is a lot smaller than his last apartment—though the locks on the door are much better. John smiles at that, the same little surge of pride he feels when he strips Matt naked and sees the wiry muscle Matt's put on, running or working out together at John's gym. The smile fades slowly, though, as he takes in the rest of the place. 

It's not that there's anything _wrong_ with Matt's place, exactly. If anything, it's a lot cleaner than he expected. Which, John guesses, is part of it. In fact, other than the Mother Ship of computers under the windows, it looks a lot like the safe houses John's been in; new, unlived in, no personal touches other than the clothes strewn on the floor. 

It makes sense, John guesses. He hasn't really thought about it before but he tots up how much time Matt spends at his place and... It's a lot more than he thought. No wonder Matt's thinking about moving up to NYC. Maybe John should just ask him to move in. 

Though the thought wasn't serious—John's brain is a lot like his mouth; both have a way of running on without him—it still hits John like a ton of bricks between the eyes. It's not just the idea of Matt moving in with him. It's the realization that he might actually want that. Matthew Farrell in his space and in his face 24/7. 

"What?" Matt's shoulders are still up around his ears as he looks around, trying to see what John sees, eyes wide with worry. "What?" 

John doesn't know what he looks like—though he can kind of guess—but he softens his expression as he reaches for Matt, guiding him around and pushing him back into the wall. "It's nice, Matt. I like it." 

"Yeah?" Matt fidgets without trying to move away, eyes flickering everywhere but at John's face. "It's kind of small. And I've been kind of busy so I... I feel like I need more furniture, but then I think I really don't need more _stuff_ , you know, and it's not like I'm gonna be having like...what? A dinner party? Pssht." Matt snorts. 

"Matt." John thumbs under Matt's T-shirt, brushing the doe-soft skin that covers Matt's hip. "I'm sorry I was an asshole." 

Matt's eyes snap to John's. The look of shock on his face makes John want to laugh, but he tamps it down. Can't help the smirk though; that's part of his face like his nose or his regrettable tendency toward hair loss. "Thought you didn't apologize, McClane." John can tell Matt's trying to sound brave, but his voice cracks in the middle, a little waver. 

John shrugs. "Well, see, I've been spending all my time with this young guy. He's been teaching me some new tricks." 

Matt laughs and John takes that as his cue to tug Matt into him.

***

"So she really refused to let you eat there unless you came back with me?" Matt laughs, spreading his legs helpfully wider as John kneels up between them. The slide of John's hand from his knee to the join of his leg makes Matt shiver, chilled and melting hot.

"Yeah, she really did." John tugs Matt down, easing his thighs on top of his own. Matt arches his back, sharper when John reaches between his legs and rubs purposefully, sweetly. 

"I always knew Deb liked me better," Matt muses and cocks an eyebrow. "God, John, you could starve to death." 

"Ha ha, very funny." John's fingers swat the flat of Matt's thigh, a sharp crack that makes Matt buck up, cock leaking wetly onto his stomach. "Like that, did ya?" The sun lines around John's eyes bunch tight, eyes themselves sharp, hooking under Matt's skin and missing nothing. John smacks him again and Matt grabs onto John's forearm. Not trying to make him stop, so much as the intensity, not knowing what else to do with it. 

_Yeah. Yeah. Please._

"Touch yourself." John peels Matt's fingers loose and wraps them around Matt's cock instead, making him stroke himself roughly, slowly, pleasure-ache spreading through Matt's whole body. When John lets go, Matt keeps jacking, sweet tugs that make him roll up and then push down into John's fingers, rubbing against his hole. "Yeah. Come on." John's voice is thick, almost slurred.

Matt has to close his eyes, dizzy with the feel of John's eyes on him, burning him up. The liquid blurt of lube squirting closes Matt's fingers tight around his dick, shuddering from head to toe. "J-john..."

John's mouth comes down on his, silencing Matt at the same time John's fingers open him—two at once and not gentle. Matt's moan is stifled between their locked mouths and he hooks one leg around John, urging him closer. 

It's John's turn to groan, more of his weight falling on Matt. Matt lets go of his cock to grab John's shoulders and pull him down, solid and heavy, unquestionably male. Unquestionably John. 

John freakin' McClane.

"Matt." John nuzzles his face, the moist heat of his breath against Matt's ear making Matt shudder as much as the intenseness of John's fingers stroking inside him. Matt hums, a vague noise really only meant to show John that he heard him. _"Matt,"_ John says again, more urgently. "I don't think about it." 

"What?" Matt's eyes blink open though the lids feel heavy, weighted. "Huh?" How is John even _thinking anything_ at a time like this? 

"I don't... I haven't thought about it. Doing it the other way." John moves his head so they're eye to eye, so Matt can see the seriousness of his face, his expression. "I don't... I just don't know about that. Is that a problem?" 

Matt's head flops back into the pillow, his body writhing restlessly with too much not-quite-satisfying sensation. "Christ, McClane, do we have to talk about this _now_? Because what I was really thinking is how much I'd like to be fucked." 

John chuffs a laugh, quiet but relieved, and finally— _finally_ —he slides his fingers achingly out and shifts his hips forward, rubbing his cock against Matt in teasing promise. "Nah, kid. We don't have to talk about it now." 

John reaches for the condoms. Matt pushes himself up enough to take the wrapper from John's hand, ripping it open and sheathing John's cock himself for the pleasure of that thick, heavy length in his hands and the way it makes John's eyes darken and mouth go slack. He thinks about offering to go without—he's clean, there isn't anyone else and he doesn't really want there to be—but he's not sure what John's reaction to that would be and he doesn't want to deal with any more rejection from John's fucked-up, not-as-hetero-as-he-thought ego. So he settles for looking John in the face as he roll-slides the latex down, as he jacks the lube on, feeling John swell and harden even more in his fingers. 

John presses Matt down into the mattress as he guides himself in, fingertips digging into Matt's shoulder. The breach of John's cock hurts familiarly and Matt's almost embarrassed by the way he craves it, flexing up as John drives into him. He likes seeing John's face now, the way it bunches in concentration and then softens into something that's a lot like wonder. He likes to see John look at him like that. 

"Breathe, Matty," John says, somewhere between stern and amused and Matt's breath catches and then sighs out of him, smooth as a silk scarf, easing the burn without taking it away. When he's in so tight Matt can't twitch for feeling him, John skims his hands up Matt's arms, guiding them over his head. But instead of pinning Matt's wrists, John tangles his fingers through Matt's, knuckles clashing as they squeeze tight in something like unison. "God, the way you look." John's voice drops to a whisper, hips rocking slow but deep, making sure Matt feels it all the way into his spine, making Matt rock right back, looking for a little more friction, a little more slam. John laughs, almost without sound. "What a fucking pair we make, kid." 

"Just want you to fuck me." Matt arches again, tightening around the good-hard feel of John's cock inside him. John's fingers tighten painfully on Matt's, his hips first stuttering in rhythm and then pistoning hard, impaling Matt deep. "Just... _ohgod_... Just fuck me." 

"Missed you," John says fiercely and then doesn't leave Matt any room to speak, breathe or even _think_ about any of it.

***

Matt wakes up and John's staring at him.

It's startling enough that he scrambles to sit upright, jerking at the sheet to cover himself like some kind of virginal maiden. "What?" He looks down at his body and sees nothing all that startling, not even the bruises he can feel aching under the skin. He combs his fingers through his hair next, shaking it to see if anything falls out. "What?" 

John shakes his head, a small smile curving his lips. "Nothing." He reaches out and his fingers flutter lightly enough across Matt's throat that Matt shivers with goose bumps, before trailing across the point of his shoulder and down his arm. It feels good, and, at the same time, it feels strange. 

"John?" 

John shakes his head again, still trailing his fingers aimlessly across Matt's skin. "Do you have to get up right away?" 

Matt snorts. "Not likely. I need to get to the bank some time before they close, but otherwise..." He shrugs. "I'm on vacation, same as you. Why? What'd you have in mind?" He puts his hand over John's cock, touching him through the sheet. It gives a little twitch, but not much of one. 

John slants him a look. "Kid. You are vastly overestimating my stamina." 

Matt huffs a laugh. "You always say that." He slides his fingers under the sheet to wrap his fingers around John without the interference of cloth. John stirs again, more strongly. "But somehow you always manage to… Um. Rise to the occasion." 

Matt's surprised, though, when John grabs his wrist, tugging his hand away. John looks embarrassed but his thumb strokes against Matt's pulse in reassurance at the same time. "I don't..." John sighs, face tightening. "Look," he says, more roughly, "I don't know what you think we're doing—what _I'm_ doing, but..." 

"I was way out of line with what I said about Holly," Matt offers quickly, not wanting to lose the ground they've gained back. Lucy's words echo back at him: _I know he saved your life and he's_ woo-hoo _John McClane, but just...don't count on him for too much._ "You guys were married a long time. I know what she means to you." 

"No." John's fingers grip tighter for a second as he shakes his head again. "I mean, _yeah_. She does. She always will. But what I'm saying is, when Lucy showed up that day, I wasn't trying to hide anything." 

Matt shrugs and nods. "Yeah. Sure. Of course." 

John makes a face. "Look, I'm trying to have a moment here, okay? An honest to God, share our fuzzy feelings moment. And I hate that shit. It makes me fucking cranky. So just...take my word for this, okay? Because I swear to God, Matt when I saw your face..." John gestures, helpless, frustrated jerks of his hands. "I didn't think you'd want me to tell her the truth." 

"Me." It doesn't come out a question, exactly. More like he's trying the word out on his tongue to see how it tastes. "You thought _I_ didn't want Lucy to know." 

John shrugs, both more embarrassed and more irritated by the moment. "That's what it looked like where I was standing." 

Matt considers himself far from a dumb guy, but he can only blink, unsure what to do with this new information. "So," he says finally, "does that mean you're going down to D.C. to tell them about...this?" He almost says 'us', but even now that seems too presumptuous, an implied unity that he isn't sure of and doesn't believe in. 

_…don't count on him for too much._

It's the wrong question. Matt sees that, the second he asks it, in the way John's face freezes and tightens again, featureless as if he got stuck with Botox. "I... I don't know." 

_My dad's not a bad guy. He just really, really_ sucks _at being there when there aren't guns or bombs involved._

Matt nods slowly. It's not that he didn't know what he was getting into, chasing John. Most of the time, he's amazed they've gotten this far. It's not like he's ever seen rings and commitment ceremonies in their future, or that he even wants that. It's not like he's ever seen a future for them at all. And he's not always totally sure he wants one. 

All they have—all they've _ever_ had is right now. 

"Yeah, okay," Matt says, as slowly as he'd nodded. He slides back down to lie on the bed. 

"Matt—" John leans over him, the frustration on his face tempered with worry. 

Matt shakes his head and makes himself smile. "John, it's fine. I'm not...we don't have to change anything. I like things how they are." 

Again, it's the wrong thing to say. Matt watches John's eyes turn bleak and dead, the way they did in the car on the way to the power plant, during the fire sale. The way they always do when someone touches the lock box of John's past, the places no one's allowed to go. "Everything changes, kid. Whether you want it to or not." 

Matt doesn't know what to say to that. And he's only ever figured out one way to warm that look from John's eyes. He rolls over on his stomach, peeling the sheet away from John's waist and digging his thumbs into John's hips to keep him from moving. 

"Matt—" John's hand tangles in Matt's hair, but Matt ignores it and John's vague protest. Saliva tumbles into his mouth, making it wet, as he rubs his lips over the roughness of John's graying pubic hair, the solid softness of his cock. When he licks and then sucks gently at the tip, John's hand tightens again, and he gives out a strangled moan, but he's not protesting anymore. He's not fighting. Another moment and John's palm cradles around the back of Matt's head. 

Matt hums to himself and takes John deeper.

***

John has fucked up.

Again. 

He would think that by his age, he'd be used to it by now, an inevitability of error. Once a fuck-up, always a fuck-up. But it's freaking _amazing_ how he can keep fooling himself that this time, he's going to get it right. This time, it'll be different. 

No. What's truly amazing is that Matt's stuck around as long as he has. 

_I'm sorry, John, but... I just can't do this anymore._

Those were the last words Holly had said to him. Well, not the _last_ , obviously, but the last ones that marked them as John-and-Holly, man and wife. John could never remember their anniversary or any of their birthdays—his own included—or what day Lucy had softball; he could never remember to pick up the milk, or the toothpaste, or the tampons that Holly _really_ needed _right then_... But those words etched themselves, ugly and bleeding, permanently in his brain. 

He doesn't really want to hear them again. 

And he'd thought he'd squared things with the kid. He'd _tried_. Except he could tell he hadn't. Not really, that _just this far and no further_ shadow filling up Matt's eyes. And then Matt had put his talented, brilliant fucking mouth on him and there was no fucking way that John could maintain higher brain function through that. 

Then he left. 

And it's not that dire. He knows that when he drags ass back to Matt's, Matt will be there, hyped up on Red Bull and eyeball deep in one of his games or in bed, owl-eyed over a DVD, sleepy, sweet and warm. They're not at that breaking point yet. 

But it doesn't take much for John to envision Matt walking out the door for good. 

John pulls up to the curb of Holly's parent's place, a chi-chi, white brick, Lord of the Manor townhouse that probably costs more than the sum total of everything John owns. The beat-up and rundown Ford that brought him home from California looks out of place—as out of place as John himself. For the moment, his thoughts about Matt get pushed to the back of his mind in trade for whatever the hell it is Holly—and Lucy, because he has no doubt Lucy's hand is all up in this—have planned for him. It feels like a bit of a death march, walking up to the blue, relentlessly Colonial door, but John's got years of facing down his wife, his commanding officers and any number of terrorists and other lowlifes. There's a reason the guys don't invite him to Poker Night anymore. 

"Dad. Hi." It's Jack who answers the door, to John's surprise. Jack doesn't look much like John—which can only be to Jack's advantage—other than the fact that they're about the same height. John lifts his arms to hug. Then, seeing Jack close up and draw slightly back, he lets them fall and offers his hand instead. "I didn't think you'd make it," Jack admits, shaking John's hand carefully, like he's expecting a test on it later. 

It hurts, but John doesn't have the goddamn energy to get into yet another fight. So he just chuckles, pats Jack on the shoulder and says, "That's your old man, kid; always unpredictable." 

"Yeah, no kidding," Jack mutters, not quite under his breath, as he closes the door. 

Yeah, tonight's going to be just _great._

***

"John." Holly looks actually glad to see him, which is a shocker all its own. As is the hug and the kiss to his cheek. Her eyes crinkle as she smudges the lipstick she left from his cheek. John gives himself a mental reminder to check that before he heads back to Matt's because that's _all_ he needs. "How are you?"

John shrugs. "You know me. I get by." 

Holly's smile sours a little at the corners. "Yes, you always do." She pushes a little away to look him up and down. "You look good, though." She sounds surprised, with a weird evaluating note he hasn't heard in years. 

"You too." John hates small talk. He royally fucking sucks at small talk. "How's that... You still seeing that same guy?" 

"Hank?" Holly laughs. "No." She shakes her head and gives a little shiver. "No, Hank...well. Hank wanted a lot more than I was willing to give him." She shakes her head again, this time fondly. "You've ruined me for marriage, John. Hell, we've ruined each other." 

John shrugs. How do you answer a statement like that? _You don't,_ John decides, and looks around. "Place still looks the same. How's your parents doing?" 

"Oh, the same." Holly waves her hand dismissively. "Dad's convinced he's on his deathbed every month or so, even though the doctors tell him he's healthy as a horse. Mom wants to sell the house and move out to Arizona or something because Missy Chism told her it was _the_ thing to do." Holly grimaces.

"Sell the house?" John blinks. "Wow, end of an era." 

"It's too hard for the two of them to keep up and Dad's having more and more trouble with the stairs," Holly explains. She goes to the brass railed bar cart in the corner. "It's seriously an accident waiting to happen and that's all Mom needs." She grimaces. "Would you like a drink?" 

"Nah." John stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets as if to physically stop himself for reaching for the booze. The Genneros always kept a great bar; top-shelf stuff. "Actually, I was hoping to just get down to business. It's a long drive home." Though not as long as if he was driving all the way back up to NYC, he reflects. The thought gives him a little ember of satisfaction that he's not looking too deeply into. "Where's Lucy?" 

Jack's disappeared as well. Probably on his laptop somewhere; kid's always messing around online. He and Matt would probably get along like gangbusters, and isn't that a kick in the head, thinking about his son and his...whatever Matt is ( _boyfriend_ ) hanging out together? 

"She called to say she's running late." Holly turns away from the bar, rock glass cradled just above her cleavage. She's still giving him the eyeball and it's just _weird_. Weird to realize there was a time he'd have done anything to see Holly look at him like that again. Weird to realize that he doesn't want it now. Not any more. "She's pretty worried about you, John." 

His vague sense of embarrassment turns to a different kind, pricklier and with the hot pulse of anger behind it. He's gotten a little better about showing his temper over the years, but it's still there, quick to rouse and slow to put down, rumbly as a fucking jungle cat. "That's bullshit, Holly. There's nothing there for her to worry about." 

"Really?" Holly tips her head sideways. "Because, from what she tells me, it sounds like this Matt kid is a little unstable." Her forefinger draws a looping circle around her temple.

"It's not like that. Matt's not like that." John's jaw tightens up and he's hard pressed not to snap, _What the fuck do you know about it?_

"Oh?" Holly gives the little disbelieving chuckle that John fucking _hates_ , the _poor, dumb John_ laugh. "Because you're the resident expert on unstable?" 

John's fingers ball into fists, but Holly puts her head down and holds up her hand. "No. I'm sorry,” she apologizes. That was unfair." 

She looks up at him again and this is the part John can't explain to Matt, the part that's not explicable to anyone who hasn't been through it; the way that a marriage is never really, entirely over, even when the two of you can't be married anymore. He wishes Matt were here, to see Holly's expression and maybe understand. He wishes Matt was here to defend himself, to stand with him. 

"I just don't understand... Lucy knows Matt too, John. She dated him. Is it so hard for you to believe that he might have shown a part of himself to her that he hasn't shown to you?" 

John's not even going to go there with her, despite the reel-to-reel porno that goes through his head of exactly how much Matt's shown him. "Why is it so hard for you—and Lucy _and_ Jack, for that matter—to believe that maybe I'm smart enough to know what the hell I'm doing? Maybe I don't have the fancy education the rest of you do, but I think I've proven to be a pretty damn good judge of character so far." 

"Lucy says she thinks Matt has a crush on you," Holly says, her eyes as flat and unforgiving as her voice.

"I. She what?" Seeing the field of C-4 rigged to the roof of Nakatomi Plaza was not nearly as big a shock as hearing those words come out of Holly's mouth. 

"She thinks he has a crush on you," Holly repeats, the plucked arches of her eyebrows lifting. "How's your character meter doing now?" 

"I... I know how Matt feels about me." John feels entitled to the sharpness of his voice, all things being equal. It's not that he didn't expect an ambush, but he's more than a little tired of everyone thinking he's too fucking dumb to handle his business. And as for the rest of it...that's none of their business, either. It's no one's goddamn business but his and Matt's. Still, he watches Holly's eyes turn a little colder in response. "Matt and I understand each other just fine and what I don't understand is why any of you suddenly give a shit." 

" _We've_ always cared, John. We're your family." 

John wants to say to her, _not any more_ , to throw in her face that she's the one that left, that stopped trying, when all was said and done. She's the one who dropped him as easily as she dropped his last name, as easily as his kids did. 

_And what about what she's put_ you _through, huh? Marriages are made up of two people, John. And when they fall apart, it's not just one person that fucks it all up._

But he doesn't get to say any of it as the front door bangs open. "Mom? Is Dad here yet, have you guys seen the news?" Lucy sounds like a herd of horses, dropping her bag and ducking out of her coat as she rounds the corner from the front hall into the living room. She barely looks at John or Holly, fumbling instead for the TV remote in a row of others on one of the spindly side tables, nearly knocking the lamp over in her haste. 

"Jesus, Lucy!" Holly darts to right the lamp, juggling her glass at the same time. "Be careful! Your grandmother will kill us both if you break that lamp!" 

" _Mom._ Forget the stupid lamp, this is important!" Lucy flicks the TV on. 

"Hello to you, too, Lucy," John says to no one in particular, since no one's paying the least bit of attention to him. 

"Is that Lucy?" Jack calls from upstairs. A moment later, he comes thundering down the stairs. "About time!"

To John's surprise, Lucy grabs his sleeve and drags him closer, pointing at the screen with the remote. "Dad. _Look._ " 

"I'm looking, Lucy. What?" The newscaster—a woman with rigid looking chestnut hair—is talking about how there are no new developments. In the picture behind her, he sees innumerable squad cars, flashers blazing, and a couple of the big tactical HQ trailers. The graphic reads "Hostage Situation" and the ticker at the bottom of the broadcast says that there are seventeen hostages and an unknown number of robbers still inside the Bank of America. 

"Oh, yay." Jack flops down on one of the couches, expression as dull-angry as his voice. "A hostage situation that _doesn't_ involve Dad for a change. Let's mark the freaking occasion."

"Dammit," Lucy mutters, flipping to another channel. "They were showing it nonstop when I was at the freaking bar..." 

"Bar?"

Lucy rolls her eyes. "Mom. I'm twenty-four." 

"And _driving_ ," Holly points out, saving John from having to do it. 

"I had _one beer_." Lucy heaves a deep sigh, then stiffens, taking a step forward and jabbing the remote at the screen. "There! Daddy, _look_!" 

John looks. The camera is pointed at the bank doors. Someone's already cut the power, because the interior is black. From the darkness, two shapes in black—John can't tell if they're male or female—push two others—obviously hostages—up against the doors, guns pointed to the hostages heads. The one on the left is a tall, willowy black woman, long, thick curls wrapped around the hump's fist. The one on the right... The one on the right…

...is Matt. 

"I have to go," John says, feeling like his voice is coming from somewhere else. He closes his fingers around his pants pocket, keys biting like jagged teeth barely muffled by cloth. He doesn't even realize he's halfway to the front door until Holly's voice—cold, disbelieving—pulls him up short.

"John. You're not serious."

John can't hear her. Can't really hear anything over the roaring in his ears. 

Matt. It's Matt. While he's been here arguing about stupid shit with Holly, Matt's been... Matt could be dying.

Lucy grabs his hand, squeezing hard. John swings his head around to say only God knows what when he catches the look in her eyes. The big, dark, scared one that means _fix it, Daddy._

"John."

"Why does anyone even _care_?" Jack sighs, sounding bored with the whole thing.

"I have to go," John says again. 

"Jack, Lucy...would you excuse your father and me?" Another time, that tone in Holly's voice would kick John straight in the _what did I do now?_ but he doesn't feel it now. He can't. Matt is…

Matt's in trouble. 

"Mom—"

" _Now_ , Lucy."

John looks back at the TV, but Matt's gone, the broadcast has gone back to the studio where another broadcaster—this one male with so much Dippy-Do in his hair that John can see the individual comb marks—expresses grave, polite ( _meaningless_ ) concern.

"Dad." Her fingers tighten on his, that searching, desperate look still in her eyes, fixed on his face. She doesn't say the word, but he hears it anyway. _Please._

Because Matt means something to her too.

"Don't worry," John says in an undertone. From the corner of his eye, he sees Holly's mouth tighten and her head cut away, disgusted. It means less to him, though, than the way his baby girl's eyes well up and she nods, trusting John McClane to pull it out. 

And he will. He has to. 

Jack's left the room, but only as far as the front hall stairs. He holds out his arms and Lucy stumbles into them, hiding her face in his shoulder. 

John starts for the door.

"John." Holly grabs his sleeve, pulling him up short. The line of her mouth seems cruel to him and he wonders if it was always like that or whether he just thinks so now because the divorce has left him bitter. "This is exactly what I'm talking about with you." She tilts her head back toward the kids. Jack is talking to Lucy in an undertone and John still can't see her face. "You involve yourself in these things and it's none of your business. Let someone else handle it. Your family is right here and you're losing them, John. Every day, you're losing them." 

She's right. John knows she's right. But all he can think about is Matt's face, bloodied and flattened to the glass, the gun up against his face. He could die. He could be dead _right now._

"So you want me to lose someone else too? When maybe I could've done something to stop it?" 

Holly huffs. "John… What do you think you're going to do, exactly? I know he's your friend and you saved his life once, but when are you going to learn you can't save everyone? That you're not Superman?" 

John wets his dry lips. He's seen enough brains blown out in his time to know what they look like; he can't imagine that happening to Matt. Doesn't want to. "I can try." 

"John." Holly shakes his arm urgently. "That's your daughter in there. Your son. Your _family._ Compared to that, who is this boy to you?" 

"He's…" John peters out, not sure how to end that sentence. He's the guy I'm fucking? My boyfriend? The guy I love? 

He doesn't know. He doesn't know how to say all the things Matt is to him, other than to recognize that last bit is true. He knows because this is how it felt every fucking time Holly was in trouble, like he can't breathe right and his heart's going to explode. He wishes it felt more like a surprise, to suddenly know that he loves Matt, but it doesn't. He knew it. He just couldn't cop to it. 

"He's what?" Holly demands impatiently. 

"He's someone I can't stand to lose," John answers finally. "Look, Holly, tell the kids I'm sorry…" 

Holly holds up her hands. "I'm not telling them anything, John. I'm sure they already know where they rank on your list of priorities." 

It's not fair but life's not fucking fair. Nothing that John can do about it now. 

He goes. Of course he does. He's John fucking McClane.

***

Getting out of D.C. is a clusterfuck, even with the old dome light that John keeps stashed under the seat. It's almost three hours to Camden at a reasonable speed. John doesn't go anything _resembling_ a reasonable speed, tearing up the shoulder where necessary, worrying about his tires only so much as they don't blow out before he closes the distance between him and Matt. He keeps the radio on, the mindless, passionless repetition of unsatisfying facts engraving themselves in his brain.

_Today, at approximately 3 p.m. EST, an unknown number of men, armed with automatic weaponry, entered the Bank of America on Westfield Avenue. Upon entering the bank, the gunmen opened fire, killing at least one security guard and took the other ten bank employees and seven customers hostage. Among the hostages are bank manager Angela Freamon and computer security analyst Matthew Farrell, who gained notoriety nearly two years ago for his part in the 'fire sale' attack by terrorist mastermind Thomas Gabriel._

_So far, no other casualties have been reported._

So far, no other casualties have been reported. 

So far. 

John hurries.

***

He's thirty miles away when the on-scene reporter breaks in excitedly, "There's...there's something going on inside! We can hear gunshots. Did you...? It looks like SWAT's getting ready to go in and..." She breaks off.

 _"And?"_ John demands of the radio. "And what? _Report_ , goddamn it, isn't that your job? To freaking _report_?" 

"It looks like the doors are opening!" The reporter says finally. "I don't... I can't...see..." 

John pounds on the wheel, the car roaring dangerously through the narrow streets in a halo haze of red and blue danger lights. 

The studio cuts in. "What's going on out there, Barb? What do you see?" 

"It looks like...yes! It looks like the hostages are coming out!" 

The area around the bank is a hopeless snarl of police roadblocks and gawking onlookers. John growls to himself and leans on the horn before he bucks the car up on the curb in a shower of sparks and scattering pedestrians. He abandons it there, dropping the guy that tries to lip off about John almost running him over with a quick double tap, gut and jaw. Ow. That was his busted up hand.

_The hostages are coming out,_ he thinks, threading through the crowd like he threads through early morning commuters on his runs. He can't catch his breath; his heart is fluttering like a hummingbird in his chest. _But how many of them?_

_Matt's a smart kid. He'd keep his head down, stay out of trouble._

John's lost too many people over the years to hold much faith in that. _I'm sorry, Matt. I'm sorry I wasn't faster. Be okay. Please be okay._

John hits the police perimeter and flashes his badge. "Matt Farrell," he says to the yokel that stops him. "Have you seen him? Did he make it out? Matthew Farrell. He was one of the hostages." 

The yokel—his badge reads Foster—shakes his head. "I'm just crowd control, man. You gotta ask the big wigs who made it out; they're still counting bodies and taking names." 

"Jesus Christ, what happened?" John asks the question, but doesn't wait for the answer, unable to hold still that long. Impatience and fear itches in his blood. _Be okay, Matt. Give me the chance to tell you what a moron I am._

There's always so much _noise_ at a scene; people talking, screaming, shouting, crying. The rumble of the cars and the mobile command units. Hell, just the beat of feet against the pavement, all these people bunched up together, running to and fro like they have somewhere important to be instead of playing the fucked up game of hurry up and wait.

John keeps his badge in hand, flashing it around as he shouts: "Maaa-tthew! Matthew Farrell! Matthew Farrell!" 

_Be here. I know you're here. Where the fuck are you?_

"McClane!" The sound of his shouted name and a jerk of motion off to the side swings John around like he's on a gimbal, heart seizing in his chest. Four ambulances are parked together off to his right; he sees Matt sitting slump-shouldered on the tail of one of them, waving unsteadily with his left arm.

Later, John won't even remember traversing the space between them. He only remembers Matt, bruised up, blood on his face and leaking sluggishly down his right arm. It's like pulling Holly up from the broken window or spotting her in the doorway of the plane, that strange, heady mixture of relief and yearning—to touch, to hold and to keep safe. 

John doesn't even think about it, seeing Matt's face turn up like a flower, his eyes blank, lost; he cups Matt's head on either side—careful of purpling bruises and blood—and kisses him like he can drain Matt's soul out through his mouth and hide it safe in his own body instead.

Matt makes a noise that John feels more than hears, shaking minutely and uncontrollably under John's clutching hands. Matt's fingers close around John's wrist, hard enough to leave bruises of his own.

"Ahem." 

At the sound of someone loudly clearing their throat, John becomes aware of their surroundings again: the crowds, the cops, the news crews. The EMT on his left and the two men—a suit in a tac vest and one SWAT—waiting off to the right. John feels washed through with scalds of embarrassment, but it's less at the PDA than for getting so involved in it he forgot where he was. Still. Priorities. 

"Are you all right?" he asks, keeping his hand on Matt's unhurt shoulder. With his other hand, John pushes back the blood-slicked points of Matt's shaggy bangs to look at the nasty, crooked and bleeding gash across his forehead. "What happened?" He takes a quick look at Matt's arm too. Gunshot. The sight of it makes his stomach churn sour and ugly, even as he diagnoses it as just a flesh wound. He looks back into Matt's shocked, confused eyes again. "Are you okay?"

"John, I don't...don't remember..."

"As touching as this is," the EMT interrupts politely, crowding in and gently disentangling John from Matt. "I _really_ need to stop this bleeding and get our little hero here back to the hospital." The EMT's not being sarcastic; when John looks at him, there's a warmth in his eyes that matches his tone and John relaxes a little bit. But only a little.

"Hero?" John repeats numbly, letting himself be edged back. Not far. Just far enough for the EMT to work.

At the same time, the suit asks, "And you are?"

John doesn't know what he's done with his badge, fumble-fingered and a little shaky himself with adrenaline. _Can't save everyone,_ Holly's voice mocks. He finds the shield in his pants pocket—God only knows how it got there—and holds it out. "John McClane. NYPD."

The flatness of their gaze is a marked contrast to the friendliness of the EMT and it only gets worse when he identifies himself as a cop. _Faggot,_ John sees in their faces and he bristles, ready to throw down, if that's what it takes. 

"Little out of your jurisdiction, aren't you, McClane?"

"Matt's a friend." 

"Yeah, I can see that."

John's chin comes up. He came all this way spoiling for a fight. He's got no problem taking it up with these snot-nosed assholes instead. "Do we have a problem here?"

In John's experience, SWAT jockeys are usually a little fast off their gun, but it's the SWAT guy who touches the other's sleeve, whispering in his ear too quietly for John to hear. 

Fuck 'em.

John looks back to Matt, who's blinking shockily as the EMT cleans his scalp laceration. "I don't really remember what happened," Matt says slowly, wiping his palm across his knee in nervous repetition. "I don't... I don't..." 

"Matt." John makes his voice firm, if still quiet, talking to the two goons as well as Matt. "It's all right. You don't have to remember."

Matt nods jerkily, teeth biting and re-biting the unsteady line of his mouth.

"Your boy here's quite the hero," the EMT comments lightly, making a face as the gash continues to sluggishly leak blood. "I'm going to bandage this up, but what he really needs is stitches. But what everybody's talking about is how Matt here saved the day."

"Oh, yeah?" John doesn't know whether he's impressed or if he wants to shake the life out of Matt. "You did that?"

Matt shrugs and holds up his hands. He looks like he's seeing fingers for the first time ever. "I don't... I guess so." His voice is dreamier and more cheerful, if ragged at the edges. 

John raises his eyebrows and looks at the EMT. "Morphine?"

"Morphine," the EMT agrees.

"Look, Detective McClane..." SWAT and suit turn back to them and SWAT speaks up for the first time. His name patch says R. Balaban. "We appreciate you coming down like this, but we really need to talk to Mr. Farrell here about what happened inside."

Matt looks up at John, a look in his eyes a lot like the one Lucy'd given him. 

Like John would ever leave him to these yokels.

"Mr. Farrell already said that he doesn't remember what happened." John slaps his palm against Balaban's breastplate as the guy tries to step around him. He doesn't raise his voice though. Not yet. "And Mr. Farrell is in need of medical attention. I don't think anybody wants the hero of the hour dying on the scene, do we?"

"He ain't dying."

John looks at the EMT, whose eyes widen, but steps forward readily enough. "Oh! I...uh...these kinds of wounds can turn septic very quickly." He nods. "It's important we get him to the hospital right away."

John steps around him, going to Matt's unhurt side and curling his hand around the back of Matt's neck. Matt was still shivering, but at the touch, he tilts a little in John's direction (with a wince—ribs?), shoulders dropping, eyes closing. Something inside John stretches out from a tight wound curl and becomes still.

The two on-scene stiffs don't like it, but between John and the EMT—who will later introduce himself as LeVonzel—they get Matt hustled on the ambulance.

"Thanks," John tells LeVonzel.

LeVonzel's smile is wide and understanding. "My pleasure, honey."

"John? John!" When John perches out of Matt's sight line, Matt gets restless, trying to sit up on the gurney.

"Hey." John ducks forward a little bit into Matt's view, easing Matt back down with one hand. "Right here. I'm right here."

Matt sinks back. He looks more confused than drugged, but his blown pupils tell the real story. "I'm tired." Matt sighs, his hands scratching restlessly at the blanket LeVonzel threw over him. He looks up at John. "You're not going to go, are you? You'll stay?"

John nods, the gesture sticking in the tightness of his throat. "Yeah. I'll stay, Compaq."

Matt closes his eyes and chuckles softly. "Compaq... That's what you call me 'cause I work with computers. S'cute, it's cute..." Matt's hand moves like he's going to pat John's hand and gets tired halfway there. "God, I'm so tired." Then his brows ripple and his eyes open again, searching for John even though he hasn't moved. "John...I think I killed somebody."

John looks up at LeVonzel, who holds up three fingers and mouths the number for emphasis. 

"It's all right, Matty." John pushes the hair back from Matt's face. Scalp's still bleeding and once the morphine wears off, those bruises are going to hurt like hell. John's free hand curls into a fist. "Don't worry about that now."

LeVonzel looks at the heart-pulse monitor and then back at Matt. "Why don't you get some sleep, hon?"

Matt nods and lets his eyes droop shut. "Good idea."

"What's wrong with him?" John asks, once Matt's breathing has changed and John can tell he's really sleeping. 

LeVonzel shrugs. "Shock, I'd guess. From what the others are saying, he went kind of crazy on those guys." The EMT nods toward Matt. "He a vet?"

John shakes his head, fingers still moving restlessly in Matt's hair. "No. Just kind of fucked up."

"Oh, hell," LeVonzel sighs. "Aren't we all?" He shakes his head at Matt. "Poor thing. All the same, y'all might want to think about getting him a good shrink."

"Yeah." John nods slowly. "We're going to talk about that."

***

"...yeah, Lucy, I saw it too. No, I don't want to talk about it. Because I don't know what there is to say about it."

The first thing is John's voice. At first tight, verging on angry and then, with a sigh, changing to weariness. The familiarity of it washes through Matt like a tide, lifting him on its currents. "Yes, Lucy, that's exactly what I go around doing now."

Next comes the pain, dull and sharp at the same time, jagging through his bones as he tries to move, tries to open his eyes, tries to rise the last few inches out of the darkness. It's not the first beating he's ever taken, sad to say. Matt sucks it up and opens his eyes. 

His memories and his nightmares are jumbled; he feels confused, not entirely in his skin. The sight of John pacing at the foot of the bed is like the first cool, clean breath after bad dreams. The plastic of the mattress crinkles loudly as Matt shifts. Hospital bed. Not that Matt didn't know that already; the soft, yet intrusive beeps and clicks of the machinery had crept into his dreams.

John turns around and catches sight of Matt awake. Matt watches the lines that ladder John's forehead and edge his eyes smooth out.

_For me_ , Matt thinks, satisfied and amazed at the same time, the only concrete feelings he has. _He was worried about me._

"Lucy, I gotta go," John says, a smile starting to curl the corners of his mouth. "Yeah— Yeah, I know, honey. All right. Yes. _Yes_ , Lucy I will talk to you about this later. Fine.” A pause and then John softens, face, eyes and tone. “Yeah, Luce, you're welcome. Now goodbye."

John clicks the phone shut and slots it back in the holster by touch, his eyes never leaving Matt's as he comes around to the side of the bed. "Hey." He sounds gruffly pleased. "How you feeling?"

"I don't know." Matt puts his hands down and tries to push himself upright. His right shoulder catches fire with agony, buckles under him and pitches him sideways. John's hands curving around him to catch him and tug him back upright find new hurts, great and small. "Jesus Christ!" Matt flinches and then tries to find and hold perfectly still. "What happened?"

John's eyes change, the lid seeming to hood them. It tells Matt it's bad, worse than he thinks. "You don't remember the bank at all?"

_The bank._

Matt remembers. For a moment, that's all he can do, remember. Remember feeling the gun butt crash into his forehead, the side of his face, his jaw. He remembers how cold the floor was under his sweaty palms when he fell. He remembers their eyes and knowing he was going to die. 

"Hey. _Hey._ Come back." John sits on the edge of the mattress and puts his arm around Matt. He's warm. A lot warmer than Matt.

"John..." Matt's voice comes out rusty and weak. He remembers. He remembers. "I killed those guys. Christ, I killed two...three people."

"You did what you had to."

"Do you know that? You weren't there." It's hard not to make that sound accusatory; he knows that John takes it that way anyway, watching the lines on his face engrave themselves again.

John doesn't follow it up, though. "They were going to kill you. You want me to be sorry some hump that stuck a gun in your face died instead of you?" He shakes his head. "Not gonna happen, Matt."

Matt's shaking. He's so tired of shaking like a scared fucking rabbit. It's weird to have John this close to him, to see all John's emotions right there on top. John's great at the stuff like anger, impatience, contempt, but this isn't any of those things. Matt doesn't know what this is. John's hand is curled around the nape of Matt's neck, alternately massaging the aches and caressing and it just makes Matt shake harder.

"I'm glad you're alive," John says, right up against Matt's ear. "Be glad you're alive. You saved all those people, Matt."

Matt ducks his head down further, his eyes burning with held-back wetness and his chest tight as steel bands. He remembers the others in the bank too, what their faces had looked like as they'd watched him get the shit kicked out of him. He remembers the anger in the middle of crippling fear. What he _can't_ remember is if he was even thinking about them, when he grabbed for the gun, or whether he was too busy trying to save his own skin.

John is too close to him. Matt can't take his kindness and he tries to elbow away, put some distance between them. "Somebody might come in," Matt mutters, feeling ungracious and mean.

Always contrary, John doesn't rise to Matt's bad mood, snorting tolerantly. "Hate to break it to you, kid, but you and me? We're headline news."

Matt stares at him, waiting for the punch line. When nothing's forthcoming other than John's irritating crooked smile, Matt asks, "What do you mean?"

"When I kissed you." John says the words and another memory slots into place, more sensory than anything; the coiled tension of John's body bent over his, clear in the desperate harshness of John's lips in contrast to the careful lightness of his hands on Matt's face. Matt's still staring and he's floored to see dull, brick red come up in John's weathered cheeks. "In the ambulance. You remember?"

"Yeah," Matt agrees slowly. He more than remembers it and it's hard not to trace across his mouth, which feels strangely tingly with sense-memory. 

"The news crews got it all." John shrugs, but Matt doesn't believe for a second that John's as cool as he seems. Not with that kind of bombshell.

Not that John's ever acted particularly ashamed of him. Exactly. They go out, they hang out. Deb had sure figured it out, so it's not like...he's not John's dirty secret. Exactly. But at the same time, Matt would have to be blind, deaf, dumb and stupid not to know that this sudden side trip down Bisexuality Lane isn't exactly an easy pill for John to swallow.

"I...wow." Matt doesn't know what to say, his tongue thick with whatever drugs they gave him. "I... _wow_."

John just looks at him, making Matt feel like some further response is called for. 

"How did we look?"

"Like gay porn." John's tone is dry enough to dehydrate, punctuated with the roll of his eyes. "It looked like two guys kissing." John's shoulders roll in a shrug.

"It was a good kiss," Matt offers, earning a small, ironic smile from John. "I suppose it's too much to hope that Holly and your kids missed it?"

John shakes his head, still smiling. "Why do you think Lucy called? And I got eight voicemails from Holly already."

"Oh."

"Yeah. _Oh._ " John's eyes narrow dangerously. Matt never knows whether he's scared or turned on when John looks like that, a tightness in his belly and groin. Probably a little of both. "You did this on purpose, didn't you?" 

It's so completely out of the blue that Matt just gapes at him at first. His anger is swift to follow though, unexpectedly hot, filling him up with false strength and driving back his tiredness. So instead, Matt glares. "Yes, John. I got my World of Warcraft guild together and _robbed a bank_ just so you'd come out to your family about our Big Gay Affair. That was my diabolical plan the whole damn time, mwa-ha-ha-ha.” Matt's just a teeny bit proud of the sarcasm dripping from his tone. I just _shot myself_ for verisimilitude!" 

"Veris-what? World of who? I swear to God, I don't understand more than a word in twenty when you say shit like that." Matt doesn't expect it when John reaches out and drags his thumb roughly across Matt's mouth, John's eyes softening even though his expression doesn't change. "But no. That wasn't what I meant." Matt doesn't know how it's possible for John to loom over him, when they're both sitting and only an inch or so of height separates them, but suddenly John's looming and Matt's mouth is dry. "You trying to take my job, Compaq?"

Intelligently, Matt says, "Huh?"

Again the roughness of John's thumb swipes across Matt's lips; this time Matt is fast enough to bite, teeth scraping lightly over callused skin. John's eyes darken and Matt wants to reach and feel if John's hard, but even the considering twitch of his arm sends pain down into his fingers and up into his shoulders. 

"Matt," John says and underneath the gravelly exasperation, his voice wavers a little. "Would you just... _Be careful._ There's only enough room in this relationship for one action hero."

_Relationship._

"But your kids," Matt says stupidly. "And Holly..."

"Look, ki— Look, Matt. I got one thing going for me in this whole wide world and that's that I don't quit. I'm not the smartest guy, I'm not the handsomest, I ain't never going to have a whole lot of money..."

Matt waves his hand. Like he gives a shit about any of that.

"Point is, I don't give up. I don't walk away. And if Holly hadn't walked away from me first, we'd be married now. But she did walk away. And she's got her life and I got mine.

"I'm not going to tell you it doesn't freak me out sometimes, or that I don't need a minute to get my head on straight, but that isn't the same as leaving. I'm not leaving. I don't leave," John repeats, with emphasis. "So if you ever want out of this relationship, you're gonna have to be the one to go. You got me?"

There was that word again. _Relationship. He called it a relationship. Twice!_ Matt nods numbly. The rest of what John said is almost more than he can handle, let alone understand. But by the sound of it, he'll have some time to figure it out. "Got it."

"Good." John gives him the quiet smile, the one he gets when he's real pleased. Some people get loud when they're happy. John, on the other hand, gets quiet. "Now. Let's get you out of here, before the cops decide they wanna ask more questions. Or the press finds a way to sneak in."

Matt shudders and reaches for the clothes John holds out. He reaches with his right hand and has to bite back the noise he makes as the pain cuts through whatever drugs they gave him. 

"Here." John puts the clothes on the mattress instead and reaches behind Matt's neck to undo the ties of his hospital gown. "I gotcha." The gown falls away, down Matt's shoulders and chest. He didn't think it was possible to get colder, but goosebumps sweep his naked skin. And still John doesn't move back. "Matt," he says, his tone making Matt look up at him. "I'm not going anywhere."

Matt nods, throat too tight to bring up words.

***

 _December 31_

"So, I wanna talk to you about something," John says, once they're back at Matt's place. The press is still staking out the hospital except for one enterprising soul half-asleep in his car out front. John went around back and half-carried Matt up the stairs, both of them fumble-footed with fatigue. 

The EMTs had cut Matt's shirt off him at the scene to get access to the bullet graze and the cops had confiscated his bloody, filthy jeans and sneakers. John had zipped his own coat over Matt's hospital gown and, with the help of LeVonzel's partner, Dr. Dan, 'liberated' a pair of drawstring scrub pants and rubber clogs like the nurses wore. Any residual guilt John felt about it—and there wasn't much—was alleviated by the ease of getting Matt out of it all again and settling him in his own bed. 

"Now?" 

John digs his wallet from his back pocket and sits down next to Matt on the bed, digging a yellowing and fray-edged business card from inside. He hands it to Matt.

"Kendra Jameson." Matt reads her name tonelessly, then looks up at John. The drugs in his system make him look even more puppy-eyed than usual, far worse than Lucy at her manipulative best. "You want... You want me to see a shrink?" Though Matt tries to keep his voice level, John hears the betrayed uncertainty underneath it.

John shrugs. He's always been shitty at this part. Talking. _Communicating._ But he always tries. Like he said to Matt, he doesn't just quit. "I thought maybe you would want to talk to somebody."

Matt's lips curl up flat and unwilling. He flicks the card back to John. "I'm fine."

"Matt." For all that Matt likes John to get a little rough, a little... _emphatic_ in the bedroom, John always does his best to leave it there. But he hears it surface in his voice, jerking Matt up short. Right away, he softens it, afraid of it with Matt in a way he isn't with anyone else. "Matt. I just... She's someone who helped me figure things out, when I needed someone to talk to."

“You.” Matt blinks at him, slow and confused. _I love you,_ John thinks, marveling at it again, trying to unstick the words from the tip of his tongue. It shouldn't matter that Matt's a guy. On the other hand, John never said the words to his father, even the day his dad died. It's not the same, but a little bit, it is. "I thought you hate them," Matt says, sounding suspicious.

"Oh, yeah, the fucking department shrinks, always wanting to know if you wet the bed as a kid or how long you were breastfed or stupid shit like that. But Kendra—she's not like that." John nods toward the card, still on the spread between them. "She's the real deal. Helped me get my head on straight, after Holly and coming back to New York and all that shit with Simon Gruber. Guerrilla psychology, she calls it."

"You never talked about her." Matt picks at the naps in the blanket with his left, avoiding John's eyes.

"Never had a reason to." John shrugs. 

Matt tilts his head, looks at John out the corner of his eyes. "Day we..." Matt makes a vague and completely unhelpful gesture, "you said you're kind of fucked up."

"I am kind of fucked up," John agrees. "But Kendra's the one that showed me how to be okay with that." He hesitates a second, before putting his hand over Matt's, but he doesn't think Matt really notices. "Look, Matt... I'm not your dad. I'm not going to tell you what to do. I'm not going to put strings on it or nothing. But you're kind of fucked up too." Matt flinches but he doesn't pull away. "And I don't think you're okay with that."

"I fucking _hate_ shrinks," Matt says, voice smoking with a lot more emotion than John can interpret.

"Yeah, well, you used to hate cops too. Look how that turned out." Like John hoped, that makes the kid look at him and laugh and if it's a little jagged at the edges, John's just happy to see that little light in the back of Matt's eyes that he knows is just for him. "C'mere," John says and holds his arm out. "Let's watch ourselves make out on TV."

***

 **You are such an asshole. I can't believe you didn't tell me. You know you'd better call me, right? I'm so gonna kick your ass, next time I see you.**

Matt smiles as he clicks the laptop lid shut on Lucy's email. He'd worried how the mysterious Jack and the even more mysterious Holly are taking the news for John's sake.

He'd worried about Lucy for his own. 

But her message—McClane-esque threats of violence aside—tells him that some part of their friendship survives intact, though he'll undoubtedly be paying for his transgressions for a long time. John tells him that Gennero women have elephant memories.

Less reassuring is the 200+ messages on his cell's voicemail, mostly—he assumes, after listening to the first three or four—from media types wanting to know what it's like to fuck John McClane. Another one makes his phone buzz across the nightstand even as he thinks about it. Matt peeks over at the display. 212. Jesus.

“Give me that.” John sounds exasperated but in the fond way as he pulls the laptop from Matt's hand and sets it on the nightstand too. “I thought I said no computers.”

“You can't honestly expect me to just go cold turkey.”

"No laptop, _definitely_ no phones." John stacks Matt's phone on the laptop and then moves them somewhere Matt can't see, too tired and lazy to sit up. "Look at it this way. It'll build character." 

"I have enough character!"

John comes back empty-handed, wearing nothing but his underwear. Cockteasing bastard. John crawls in next to Matt, bringing cold and heat in about equal measure.

“You're at least going to make it worth my while, right?” Matt wiggles his sling-swathed arm gently. “Distract me from my pain?”

“You're lucky I don't hurt you worse for being such a dumbass.” 

“That could be fun too.” That doesn't get any response from John, kidding or otherwise and Matt's teasing mood slips away from him as his cell phone buzzes yet again somewhere in the distance. 213. "How much trouble is this going to be?" Matt asks, tipping his head back on the pillow to look up at John.

They've been watching TV all day. Or, really, they've been lying around on Matt's bed with the TV on. It's New Year's Eve and a slow news day; every half an hour or so, another teaser for the local news goes by with the screenshot of the two of them. In fact, there goes another one now.

Matt can't help but look, every time, fascinated-fixated by the way John looks, body bent in over Matt, hands on his face. By the two of them, right there, in living color. While John was in the bathroom, he downloaded all the copies he could find to his hard drive. It's embarrassing and Matt hasn't and won't say anything to John...but sometimes he catches John looking at _him_ and he thinks John already knows.

John shrugs. "Enough." Matt might be grasping at straws, but he thinks it means something that John doesn't try to lie to him or soften it. He's safe with John, but he's not coddled. John's never babied him. "I've been in trouble before." John gives out a dry little laugh. "Hell, trouble's practically my middle name."

"What _is_ your middle name?" Matt's kind of intrigued by the idea of McClane with parents who named him and everything. Maybe he's named after his grandfather or something. Then Matt shakes his head. "No, scratch that. I mean..." John's smiling at him, close-lipped and smirky, and if he wasn't so happy, Matt would hate him. Or something. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

John shakes his head. "Nah. I'm the one that rushed my ass back to Camden and stepped in it." The fingers curled on Matt's shoulder resume their slow scratch-rub, simultaneously soothing and irritating. "I just..."

"That's what makes you that guy," Matt answers softly.

John's eyes crinkle in something that isn't quite amusement. "Yeah," he agrees, just as quiet. "That's what makes me that guy." His fingers uncurl, smoothing across Matt's shoulder blade in slow, easy circles. "Francis."

Matt's eyebrows wrinkle. "Francis?"

John smiles. "My middle name." He holds up a hand when Matt opens his mouth, warning, "Don't say it."

Matt closes his mouth, more than happy to just lounge, warm and sleepy except for the dull ache of his shoulder and the distracting idle scratch of John's bitten nails. LeVonzel's friend Dr. Dan gave him a shitload of Oxycontin and his last dose is starting to kick in. Matt's halfway asleep when he hears McClane say, "So. I've been thinking about this whole you moving to New York thing."

"Yeah?" Matt forces his eyelids up against the weights on the lids, some last tangle of tension souring in his stomach. He doesn't move, his head glued to the pillow.

John's tone is neutral, not leaving a lot for Matt to interpret from it. "Yeah. New York's expensive. What's the point of paying rent on some place you're hardly ever going to be?"

"You got somewhere else I'm going to be, McClane?" Now Matt can tip his head back again to meet John's eyes and see the evil fucking sparkle in them. Cockteasing _bastard._

"Look, I didn't get Holly a diamond until we were married for three years. If you're looking for poetry and roses, you're doomed to fucking disappointment, kid. But you've already got a key and everybody in the freaking world knows about us at this point, so…"

Matt curves his hand around the back of John's neck, tugging him down—though it doesn't take much persuasion. The kiss is strangely soft, liquid, pulsing heat through Matt's body like liquor. John presses him down but is still careful of Matt's shoulder, careful of his thumb dragging along Matt's bruised cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. Matt's a little too fucked up for fucking, but the want rolls through him slowly anyway, a dull, banked burn. Only... "But you don't touch the collectibles, got me?"

"God forbid I should break one of your precious dolls."

"They're not _dolls_ , McClane." Matt rolls his eyes, struggling not to smile. "You know I love you, right?"

He surprises John, saying it. Hell, he surprises himself. He hadn't meant to let that out, no matter how good the Oxy makes him feel. But it feels good—better—to say it, to have it out between them. John's crow's feet bunch again, but he looks pleased this time and the little knot remaining in Matt's stomach unclenches.

"Yeah. Me too."

Matt makes a face, but the truth is that it was a lot more than he was expecting. John snorts and puts his hand over Matt's face, shaking his head back and forth before he pushes Matt—not hard—away. Then John kisses him again. 

John's different. Matt sees it, feels it. After walking on eggshells for nearly two years, Matt feels strangely...relaxed himself. More that just seeing the two of them making out on TV can explain. 

But they have time. Matt doesn't have to have all the answers today.

He changes the channel. It's only a few minutes to the countdown. 

"Do you know how long it's been since I've had someone to kiss on New Year's?" 

Called back, Matt blinks up at John and asks brightly, "No, how long, John?" 

"Haha, Gracie." He smacks Matt lightly, absently. Matt has no idea who Gracie is but he's not about to ask and subject himself to another lecture about how young he is and his lack of taste. "It's been a long time, okay?" 

Matt feels a rush of warm satisfaction at that, same as when the news flashes with another image of the two of them lip locked at the scene. Things aren't fixed, John's going to have a world of trouble, but they'll always have this, now. And Lucy doesn't hate him. That feels like enough. "Yeah, well, you wanna know how long it's been for me?" 

Parroting Matt's tone back at him, John asks, "How long, Matt?" 

Matt spreads his hands, ignoring the ugly twinge from his shoulder. "Never. I've never had anybody on New Year's." 

John's smile is slow and wicked, hot enough to melt metal. Though it's not at all unexpected, Matt shivers at the touch of John's hand on his cheek, followed by the leisurely pressure of John's mouth on his. Matt opens with the same helpless eagerness as always, hungry for it, starving. In his head, he sees them from the outside and knows it's the same for John. "Well, now you do," John murmurs into the kiss, before pulling back. "Happy New Year, Matt." 

Matt wraps himself around John arms and legs, tugging him down to the mattress. They have time.   
"Happy New Year, John." 

_January 1_


End file.
